


Finding You Might Have Been Really Hard, But Loving You is So Easy

by ChatterBoxomie



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Courtship, Enemy Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Other, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-06-10 13:28:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 67,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6958540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChatterBoxomie/pseuds/ChatterBoxomie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Robots who get dizzy. Robots with emotions. Robots who can die."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Better Left Unspoken || Transformers: Prime || Bumblebee

**Author's Note:**

> These were separate, short little works that I spent a lot of time and effort on, and so, I figured, it would be appropriate to publish them all in one, collective little "folder". I've re-written them to be from the audience's point of view. If anyone wants the original work, with the original character, let me know and I'll find a way to get it to you.
> 
> Other than that, if you have any requests, also let me know. I enjoy working on these. I write for Prime and IDW (MTMTE, Empire of Stone, RID). I might even write for Bayformers, although I prefer not to.
> 
> Obviously, different parts were written at different times, during varying portions of my changing writing style. You may even notice, if you make requests, that the newer works come out very different from others. I apologize for that. lol.
> 
> Have fun being courted by giant, transforming, alien robots.

"... I gave you painted air - tears I couldn't weep - truths I couldn't speak - all the words that caught in my throat..."

John Geddes, _a Familiar Rain_

There was darkness painted over his optics when he awoke with a start.

He blinked, once, twice, thrice, and still could see nothing.

Nothing to tell him he was still alive. He could feel the energon thrumming through the wires, the cables of his servos, of his neck, but he could see nothing. Could hear nothing.

Could only feel.

This was the first time since he had enlisted, since he had bravely soldiered on through countless orns of training and practice, that the yellow scout felt it.

Fear.

Uncertainty.

Doubt.

What would happen to him, now? Where had the rest of his team gone off to?

His captain? Would the Decepticons kill them? Were they already dead?

And him. Was he already dead? Or just on the precipice?

Oh, Primus. Why him? He had only just started - it couldn't end this way! It couldn't!

Hopelessness was coming to swallow him, and he had to hold on fast, because he knew if he didn't, he would show weakness to the enemy (if they even mattered, anymore). He knew he would cry, or scream.

And he had promised he would never do any of that. For his dearest friend's sake, for his fallen comrades, for Optimus Prime, for the Autobots. He would not be weak.

Whiplash had made him promise never to cry, never to lament his fate, only to accept it with that bright smile he so loved. Whiplash had made him promise never to stop smiling, never to stop soldiering on, because it gave the people around him the strength they needed to do the same.

("No use in pitying yourself, Bee. No use at all. Just chin up, keep going, and beat the odds, like only you can. And who knows? Maybe we'll win this, after all. I think with you around, the Autobots can surely do anything, right?")

Oh, but in thinking of his friend, he could feel his weakness arising. The tears, the shame, the anger and self-hatred and doubt growing stronger. He had been too weak, in the end, and when it all came down to it, no amount of "soldiering on" had saved Whiplash. No amount of smiling, of camaraderie, of faith and trust in their cause, had been enough to restart a frozen spark.

Whiplash had died because the scout had stayed behind with a bad feeling in his guts, to check the surroundings and make sure the enemy wasn't planning an ambush. They had been. But not the sort they'd expected.

By the time he'd made it to the rest of the team, it was too late. The blast of ice had done its work, done its damage. Whiplash was gone, just like that. The last thing his partner in training had said to him was, "Be careful, Bee. Those 'cons are slick as high-grade without half the allure. Don't go getting yourself killed, now, alright? It'll mean I have no choice but to avenge you. And you know energon doesn't look good on this paintjob. Too damn bright. I'd have to take an hour-long oil bath just to regain my luster."

The scout had laughed, then, told him to shove his paintjob up his tailpipes, and then doubled back with the captain (the only one who survived the incident alongside himself) to run security detail. He didn't hear them, didn't see the death happen right before his optics.

It was just a cold, hard truth he was presented with seemingly out of the blue.

Whiplash was dead.

(Somewhere deep inside, the scout knew he should be glad he hadn't been there to die, as well, or to see the fall of all his friends - especially his would-be partner - but he could feel nothing but regret - and guilt. _Survivor's guilt_ , the others had called it.)

And now, here he was. In a similar predicament, wondering whether he was dead, dying, or whether or he had just lost his sight - and hearing. What a horrific thing to experience, this doubt and fear.

He wondered whether Whiplash had enough time to feel the same before his untimely end.

(And reminded himself he wasn't supposed to dwell on that.)

The distinct sound of screeching metal shattered through his despairing thoughts.

"Damn door," muttered an unfamiliar voice. And then everything was back, in vivid colors and sounds. Had it been shock? He heard some mechs lost all ability to hear when their bodies went through shock. Is that what it had been? Shock?

"Hush," reprimanded another, this one resonating with authority, with power.

Strong. Menacing.

_No. No, it can't be him_.

Of all the rotten luck in the world -

"Hello, scout."

"Megatron." He said it simply, for it was the truth of the matter.

And so he finally lifted his helm, heavy, as if there was a great weight upon it, and realized his servos felt strained because he was chained to the walls. In the center of a cavernous room, empty save for himself, and his visitors (if they could be called that).

Was this their holding cells?

_But how had he gotten here?_

There was no way they could have dragged him out this far. Looked to him to be the Sea of Rust. Or perhaps it was only meant to appear that way, to frighten the prisoners.

Unless their holding cells weren't too far from the Sea of Rust, and weren't too far from his target, either? That would mean it was somewhere in the Praetorus Wharf... That was the closest settlement to the Sea of Rust. Which would mean that Prowl was right to suspect that they had a mobile command center here!

This would be a paramount discovery if he hadn't been captured and bound so tightly. His wrists ached, and his throat was parched, dry, cracking with the effort of every intake.

If he could only escape the situation, somehow, he could take note of the coordinates, the location, map out the area, and hand the Decepticons' aft to them on a silver platter! (Of course, assuming Prowl and his team hadn't found the base, yet, themselves, and they still had the element of surprise.)

(That also hinged on the assumption that the Decepticons had no idea the Autobots were looking for this base.)

Too many ifs. He didn't like those odds, but what else did he have to go on?

If he stopped hoping, scheming, planning, then all he had left was the despair.

The despair that no one knew where he was, if he was truly in the Praetorus Wharf. Which meant he was on his own, and he didn't like those odds, either.

(And even if he tried to deny the hopelessness of the situation, tried to tell himself they could be a lot closer to Iacon, to bring himself some cheer in the face of rescue by fellow Autobots, he had to face the facts, ask the tough questions, and not let his fear delude him.)

How could they have dragged him out from Tyger Pax? He had no other choice but to assume he had found the rumored base, really. It was common sense. (He was so _slagged_.)

"... so kind as to tell me where exactly the Prime resides at this very moment?"

He was brought back abruptly from his musings (worries).

"Say what?"

The titan before him. Megatron. Those red eyes glowered with the promise of pain, armor a menacing sight, cannon resting against his arm, tense with the anticipation. Of what?

Of the interrogation.

Bumblebee realized what exactly they had dragged him here for.

(Was he the only Autobot being questioned...?)

They must have been truly desperate to assume that one of many Autobot scouts would have personal information regarding the Prime's whereabouts.

It would be just as silly to assume a drone knew where Megatron was at all times.

(And even though he _did_ know the location of the Prime, this was just a lucky hit.)

(What would Megatron have done with himself if it had been the wrong mech?)

(Did Megatron know for a fact that he knew where the Prime was?)

"Why is it that everyone always assumes I know something important?"

He dared to venture.

It was meant to be taken as sign of exasperation, but Megatron took it as a joke.

And he was not in the mood. He knew it was a mistake long before the pain enveloped his chasis. He could see it in his red optics. _Bad move, Scout._

"Why, Scout? Because you have been spotted by Soundwave numerous times at the side of your precious Prime. I assume not just anyone is granted such an honor."

He kept mercifully silent, knowing anything he said could and would be held against him.

"So, I will ask this only once more. And I will assume you have enough self-respect to know that risking your health is not worth it for the twisted agenda of your precious Prime."

"Twisted agenda?" he couldn't help it. His chest was rumbling with laughter, even as his heart clenched with indecision, with the anticipation that he had messed up and might not be so lucky twice.

The titan warlord before him rose a single optic ridge, but did nothing to stop him.

"Do my words amuse you, scout?"

"Yeah, they do, because they're a load of slag!" he spat.

There was a force, suddenly, clenching around the coils and wires in his throat with an unspoken threat. His servo was strong - he could feel all the dents and scratches, the looming awareness of death suddenly becoming all-too-possible.

One snap, and Megatron could break his neck. He knew it, and he knew the Warlord knew it. That this was the reason he made this move. Megatron was Leader of the Decepticons, after all. He knew just what cards to play and when.

This was the force he believed necessary to get what he wanted.

And he most probably thought he would be getting what he wanted without too much fuss.

Especially now that he had asserted his dominance over the scout. Now that the scout knew he could easily be killed, that he was disposable, at the mercy of his captors, in a base far from Autobot intelligence (or so they believed).

But one thing Megatron didn't know? Bumblebee.

He didn't know the scout, didn't know that Bumblebee was every bit as courageous, as stupid, as a daredevil, as willing to gamble his life for the cause, for Optimus Prime, as he was every one of those things, despite whatever anyone would assume.

Bumblebee remembered something Whiplash had always told him, especially when moments like these arose, when people didn't take his worth, or his devotion to his beliefs, as seriously as he believed they should.

"People are going to underestimate you, Bee. They're going to take one look at you and think, 'what a cute kid, there's no way he'd be able to fight back, he's something to be protected, not a warrior.' And you know what? You gotta be willing to prove them wrong. You gotta take what they believe about you and dance with it, make their arrogance turn to ashes on their glossas. You gotta push away the fear, the terror, the doubt, because in a moment of crisis, of someone questioning you, and your worth, in a moment when you have to choose between preservation of life and preservation of ideals, you can't let them win. You have to be who you are, even if you're terrified every moment of doing it."

Bumblebee was not going to let Megatron win. Not this time, not ever. He would rather the Titan ripped out his vocal processor right now, because he would not say a single word that could put Optimus Prime, or anyone else he cared about, in danger. He would not forfeit Cybertron, his leader, his dreams, for fear of death.

"So, what will it be, Scout? Your life or your cause?"

"Get spiked."

There was a great roar of anger, and he knew, despite the trembling of his spark, that he had done the right thing. He felt great pride, a moment of his life where he finally didn't pity himself, where he felt amazing, like he was flying.

He had stood up to Megatron.

How many people could say that and mean it?

No, _really_ mean it? Being an Autobot wasn't the same as taking a stand - he realized it now. It was like following the crowd. You had to be willing to stand before this Titan, and all his forces, all the terror of not knowing what would happen, and still be willing to do the right thing. No matter the cost.

_That_ was taking a stand. _That_ was standing up to corruption and evil and malice - _that_ was standing up to Megatron.

"If you are going to continue with your insolence, I may have to do something drastic, scout. Are you sure this is what you want to choose? Your precious Prime over your own life?"

"It's not about him, Megatron. It's never been about the Prime, or who leads us, or even the order of things. It's always been about the truth. The freedom of all sentient beings from the terror that you would leash them to. The right to having a choice that doesn't end with misery and fear, with the death of millions, for a cause you have lost sight of. The Autobots don't follow the Prime because he's the Prime, because he's the rightful leader of Cybertron. No, we follow him because we love him. We follow him because he's shown that all mechs and femmes are capable of great things, no matter how small we start out. And we follow him, because he's shown us that we have the choice of being great or being terrible, and in the end, it'll be up to us to make our own paths, to carve out our own fates. And no one should ever have the right to take that choice away from us. That's what this is about. That's what the _Autobots_ are about. And I'm not afraid of what you do to me, because it's far worse to live a lie than to die for the truth."

There was a resounding silence, and then a sharp, jabbing pain in the wires of his throat.

"You believe yourself a preacher, Autobot, but you have no power. No _choice_. You are weak, and always will be. And I tire of hearing your voice. If you will not tell me what I want to know, I will ensure that you never speak, again."

He didn't have enough time to ask what the warlord meant, to protest, nothing, because then, there was a searing agony in his throat, and he could hear the wires tearing, the protest of his mauled throat, could feel the hot energon rushing down over his chasis to pool over the titan's fingers.

His processor spun, trying to understand what had happened, a terrible scream dying out mid-way because he could no longer make coherent sounds without feeling nauseous at the gurgling coming from his lips. The Decepticon warlord took one last look at his handiwork before snapping the chains around him, and throwing him roughly to the dirtied floor at the center of the large room.

"Enjoy dying for your truth, Autobot scout," spat the titan, and then he was gone, leaving Bumblebee in a world of pain, optics trying to shut out the world around him, body rejecting the pain though it came back in waves of fresh, stinging flames every time he took an exvent. His body was trembling, and he was faintly aware of this, but he was also faintly aware of the world slipping away from him.

And though he had said just moments earlier he would happily die for his cause, for what he'd been fighting for all his life, he couldn't help the fear, that icy mistress, which gripped at his spark. Would he really die here, far from Autobot optics or anyone to mourn him?

There was a faint touch, fingers light as a feather, skimming the length of his faceplates, coated in the blue lifeblood of their kind, no doubt. Just as his optics shuttered, offlining, processor beginning to accept this fate and preparing for shutdown, he heard a voice.

Speaking directly to him.

A voice he had never heard before, or perhaps had, in a dream.

This felt like a dream.

He was fading in and out of consciousness, experiencing death while also clinging to life.

Your voice was soft. Strong.

Filled with an incomprehensible sadness that made his spark throb.

_"If you fear nothing, then you are not brave, scout. You are merely too foolish to be afraid. And I envy you that foolishness."_

He wanted to respond, but couldn't. The pain was too great.

The world fell away around him, crinkling like expensive glass, and shattering around him.

The pain piercing his armor put his mind to rest at last.

And he let his processor fade into recharge one final time.

 

But that was not the end of a young scout's journey, not the last page in his book.

Only the beginning. The very first.

And as he was soon to find out, books are never truly written on one's own.

 

The second time he heard your voice, it was on the battlefield.

One would almost feel obligated to accept that nothing good could come out of meeting with another being twice under such horrendous circumstances. But Bumblebee was not like everyone else. He had always wondered, since that very first word he heard spoken from the lip components he hadn't laid optics on, who it could be that had questioned his bravery.

Who, after witnessing his bold declarations to the very faceplates of Lord Megatron himself, could ever think he was anything less than courageous, than commendable and admirable. Of course, he could only assume you had been one of their own. A Decepticon.

He had confided in no one about that moment. Thought it nothing more than a fleeting moment of pity, of disgust, from the enemy. But as time waned on, and the battles grew fiercer between opposing sides, and as he began to see the very fabric of their world unravel like tasteless candy left on the sidewalks under a bright and hot sun, he came to a single realization.

You, despite being his enemy, had not expressed disgust, nor pity.

Whoever you were, you had expressed envy of his “foolishness” (he surmised that you had been speaking in regards to his boldness towards Megatron). And for that very same reason, just a few choice words, Bumblebee was at a loss.

As a scout, it was his duty to prove capable of seeking out enemy intelligence, and thus bringing the Autobots closer to understanding their foes. It was his job to read the enemy, in principle. And yet, though he could read the malice in red optics, though he could see the fear and the desperation in their faceplates, the anger in their words and the fire in their sparks, he could not read the unseen enemy.

You had been a femme. That much, he knew for certain. Your soft touch had reminded him faintly of a bearer he never had the chance to know as a youngling. She had passed when he was too young to hold onto any memories, and so she had long faded from his processor.

A distant echo, a ghost of the past.

And your touch had flared something inside of him, something resembling recognition.

_Was it my bearer_? He had murmured, glossa heavy with delusions upon awakening in the medibay mere cycles after the others had found him, mangled and dying, in an abandoned Decepticon base. The field medic supervising his recovery had advised he not speak, not strain himself, and he had fallen back into the blackness of his processor.

But now he knew. You were not his bearer. You were the enemy, with a soft touch and strong words.

_A femme_ , he pondered.

Most femmes had not chosen to align themselves with Megatron. And those that had retained their duties, never wanted to stray too close to the commanding Lord of their cause. Lord Megatron would never allow just any other Decepticon to oversee an interrogation.

Bumblebee suffered no delusion that Soundwave, the Decepticon officer in charge of communications and intelligence, had not been present to his great fall from glory.

But he hadn't the faintest idea who _you_ were, a femme whom Megatron trusted to the extent of allowing you access to such a private affair. _A lover_ , he wondered?

_No_ , something inside him rebuked. Lord Megatron made it very clear that the time for loving one another was at an end. So, that plopped him right back into square one.

_Who was it? Who are you?_

He carried these questions with him wherever he went, like a weight added to his processor and to his spark. At first, he found it might just be the curiosity of the unknown. But he knew better.

It was interest. He wanted truly to know whom had spoken to him so boldly.

Without pity of his last moments, but with envy of his self-acknowledgment.

Of his dedication and fierce faith in the cause he had learned to welcome as a youngling.

And it seemed all his questions would be answered today. Or, at the very least, the questions he had now. This encounter would only leave him with _more_ questions.

There was fire raining from the skies, it seemed, coating what would have been a beautiful sight, of the Cybertronian moon, with a deep fog that could not be prevailed by biolight or distance from the battle.

Polyhex. Bumblebee had heard it’d never been a city pleasing to the optics, but it’d somehow gotten much, much worse since the Decepticons had set up their forces in the center of the city to gain control and leverage over its citizens.

The idea was to discourage an Autobot advance, and though Optimus Prime was indeed more than just a tad worried about bringing more harm than was necessary to any of Polyhex’s civilians, Jazz and Prowl ascertained that Optimus came to the realization that some sacrifices needed to be made – especially since there was a growing suspicion among the Autobot ranks that Polyhex was home to Darkmount, an imposing and near-impenetrable structure that was (also a rumor) said to be commandeered by Lord Megatron, himself.

So, Optimus, alongside his key lieutenant and commanding officer, Ultra Magnus (who Bumblebee heard was “top shit” from Jazz, being the former Commander of the Elite Guard and leader of the Wreckers), led an assault onto Polyhex.

It wasn’t long before Decepticon reinforcements fell in to combat their attempts and keep them away from reaching the center of Polyhex. The battle had been waged almost a megacycle ago (alright, perhaps that was an exaggeration on his part, but the Scout was exhausted), yet the Autobots were no closer to reaching the (rumored) site of Darkmount than when they had begun.

Maybe they had cleared a megamile, but that was it.

(And that was best case scenario, too.)

He was beginning to think they’d be here for another vorn until surprise reinforcements from the Wreckers and the Aerialbots stormed in from above. Rumor had it they were already fighting to get inside Darkmount, perhaps had succeeded and were scouting it out. Who knows?

(He sure didn’t.)

And then he heard it. The same voice.

He damn near felt the metal of his spinal struts freeze solid at the sound.

It could’ve just been his processor playing games, or maybe he was more tired than he thought, but no.

There it was again.

“…will do no such thing."

Optics alight with the flames around him, the scout dared to turn his helm, and at last, was granted a clear visual on the speaker whom had eluded him for all those sleepless nights.

You were a femme, as he'd suspected. But what he had _not_ expected was the majestic beauty, the air of command, of authority, that you held with a single withering look. Your optics were wary, which might or might not have something to do with the fact that you were covered from helm to pedes in energon.

(Yours or another's - no way to tell from here.)

It seemed you were speaking with a colleague, an ally - _whatever_ it was the 'cons referred to each other as. Said colleague, a mech the scout had once heard being designated as _Shellshock_ , was lingering, hesitating. Despite the pulling on his servo by _Rampart_ (his mate?).

"It would be incredibly foolish of us to leave you behind, Commander Windblade," said a third, trying to reason. _Conduit_ , he remembered.

"You will do as I say, the _both_ of you," your optics found those of Rampart, a grim gratification set onto your faceplates that reflected your thanks for his attempts to talk some sense into his partner (mate?).

"What will become of you?" Shellshock insisted, despite the look Rampart offered him.

"If my time has come at last, I will bear it with great honor, for I have fought alongside the noblest and bravest of mechs under the leadership of a strong visionary - and trusted friend. Don't you see? This battle is bigger than any one of us - the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. If we are to make all Cybertronians free at last from the chains of this accursed natural order Primus has leashed us with, then we will need to be prepared to make sacrifices. I will not go quietly into that well of Allsparks, needless to say, and I am glad to have done my part. Now go, for you all are not yet finished with your own contributions to this vision."

Your companions all appeared to be starstruck by your words.

Conduit wiped something glistening from his optics, something the scout recognized as coolant (it startled him - he had always heard how cold and cruel they were, the Decepticons, but in the end, they were all just mechs and femmes fighting for what they believed was right - was he so different?). "It has been an honor to serve Lord Megatron alongside you, Commander."

"You know without words that I feel the same, Conduit." There was a softness in your faceplates, a kindness in your optics; and just from one gentle touch from your servo to his shoulderplate, the poor mech was bursting into tears.

Unable to bear watching what he began to realize was a parting (because you were coming to a slow death from energon depletion?!), the scout thanked his lucky stars when your allies ( _friends_ , he decided) left you, at last.

He was thunderstuck - should he leave you here, the voice in his many dreams, to die?

But what else _could_ he do? You were his enemy, for Primus' sake - and although that might not be the case now, even if he approached you with pure intention, who was to say you wouldn't grow hostile, thinking he had come to finish you off?

(As he _should_.)

(But he wouldn't.)

(No, as much as you might have believed the Autobots to be _tyrants_ , this was not their way.)

(It was not _his_ way, anyways. He could never be too sure about Prowl.)

"Scout."

He felt the very energon flooding through his wires rust.

Had you noticed, then?

One look, and his optics met yours. Blue to red.

Only, he hadn't been expecting the smile gracing those faceplates of yours.

(Somehow, the gesture, directed at him, seemed to bring you alive with far more beauty than he thought possible for any one mech or femme. More beautiful than Primus, himself, it seemed.)

He made to respond, but then there was a dull ache to remind him of his (never-ending) predicament. Instead, he came closer, optics alight with wary curiosity.

Decepticons were known for going down in flames - and taking down all Autobots they could with them to the Allspark. It wouldn't surprise him if you tried the same.

(Actually, as it seemed this was not your intention, it _would_.)

(Something just told him - despite being told numerous times, over and over, not to trust the Decepticons - that this was not your intention.)

"I wouldn't suppose you could spare a moment for your dying enemy?"

Considering the position the young scout found himself in, he knew for a fact that coming closer would be a fool's errand, something to admonish, not something to be coveted.

(By militaristic standard.)

(However, he knew Optimus Prime, and he knew the Autobot leader's spark, and so Bumblebee knew what the _Prime_ would do.)

He took a step closer, just one, but it was enough, he could see it in the way your optics expressed your relief. Perhaps you had expected an immediate death (perhaps you were awaiting one), but if you had, you did not show it.

Instead, you raised your servo. A gesture of truce, a temporary alliance.

He should have known better, but he didn't. (Or maybe he just wanted to believe that Optimus could be right. That Decepticons were as capable of greatness as any other mech.)

(Or, in your case, femme.)

And so he reached out, placed his servo in yours.

You had a firm grip, he noted. Even when you should have been feeble from loss of energon, you did not tremble, or falter. Your fingers felt light, brushed up against the wires in his wrist.

The effect was instantaneous. A shudder rippled through him.

He wasn't sure what had happened, what had changed in that one klik of contact, but suddenly, very suddenly, almost as if he had been taken by quite a violent seizure of the spark, he wanted nothing more than to see you live.

He would not let you die.

Not here, not like this.

And he knew that it was visible on his faceplates, his conviction clear as the blue in his optics. He could see the recognition in her own. He expected a laugh, an expression of scorn, and was determined not to be swayed by it.

After that display of camaraderie, of love and care and respect, that you had shown to your teammates (even though it was clearly indicated by Conduit's usage of the title "Commander" that you rose higher on the Chain of Command), he could not let you slip away.

Not after everything you had been through. He could see it all, the pain, the confusion, the anger, all of the things that made you Cybertronian, a Decepticon - no, all of the things that made you _you_.

(And how could he let the mystery slip away after it had only just revealed itself to him?)

(He knew he would go mad if he watched the life slip from your optics without ever asking what you had meant all those cycles ago.)

But you showed no scorn. No amusement at his expense.

In fact, if it was possible, you appeared to brighten further. There was a laugh on your lips, but it was not meant to tease. It was an incredulous sound, almost as if you could not believe what you were witnessing: Autobot kindness, in the metal, in this very moment, toward _you_ , the enemy.

He motioned, wanting you to instruct him. He could see the telltale insignia, knew you were not _just_ a Commander of Megatron’s militia, but also a practicing medic. (Field medic?)

You would know how to save yourself, theoretically, but you must also have known how difficult it would be, the probability (very real) that you would not make it. This was why you had sent your comrades away.

You would never force them to experience a hope only to have it crushed before their very optics. No, they had suffered enough disillusionment, enough pain, in this infernally long life.

But an enemy? You could deal with that. It would put your mind at rest.

You had tried, tried to fight death, itself, without tormenting your most beloved friends, your comrades, your partners in this seemingly endless struggle.

(His spark grew heavy with the possibility that he might have to face failure, might be forced to watch the light fade from your optics, the mystery gone with the windless skies of Cybertron, another spark lost to this cruel, cruel war. He might have to watch you offline, just as he had witnessed so many times before, so many Primus-forsaken good bots and ‘cons, alike. Just like Whiplash.)

You beckoned for him to come closer, and then stretched yourself out along the hard surface of Polyhex's unpaved roads. (The council had never approved of the funding needed for improving the roads of (most) other Cybertronian cities. Iacon had been all that mattered to them - or so he had heard.)

Seeing you laid out, the energon glistening against the paintjob color scheme of your metal, he knew that you had resigned yourself to certain death, if it should come. But if there was a single possibility that you could make it, you were taking it.

(He suddenly found that he was admiring the enemy, and so he promptly scolded himself.)

Your optics met his, and with a nod, you began to issue instructions, tone curt, to the point, without wasting a single breath otherwise. Time was short, and he hastened to work quickly, lest you lose the battle, or his own forces did, or the two of you were found out by either side in this moment of treachery.

In a way, it was almost exhilarating, knowing he was doing something most of his comrades (and yours) wouldn't. But it also felt _right_. Doing the wrong (?) thing never felt so right, until now.

He felt as if nothing else he could ever do in this war would measure up to the greatness he felt swelling in his spark as he worked to save the enemy. No one would agree, he knew this.

(But perhaps Optimus would understand.)

And even if no one else agreed, or even began to understand, he would not be deterred.

This was _his_ decision, and as a sentient being, he had _every right_ to make this choice.

It did not weigh heavy on his conscience, as a bad decision would. In fact, it almost made him feel lighter, his processor at ease in the midst of all the chaos surrounding you both. It was as if...

No one else existed at this moment, no one else but the two of you.

"Bumblebee."

Startled, his optics met yours. His wide, and yours tranquil. Alight with happiness.

With trust.

No one, not even his own allies, had ever looked at him in that manner, save Optimus Prime.

He wished he could answer (desperately), but he could only tilt his head in question.

"That is your designation, scout?"

Ah. He understood.

He made a single noise, something that he had been learning since the incident.

(First Lieutenant Jazz, their Communications Supervisor, as well as a true friend of Optimus Prime, had been teaching him to make use of inter-Autobot frequencies to effectively communicate. True, most didn't always understand him right away, but he had been surprised to discover how willing his teammates were to learn, for his sake.)

(Or perhaps for the sake of the effort, considering he was a message courier, as well as a valuable scout, or so claimed Ironhide.)

He had almost forgotten that there was no way the enemy would be able to understand those frequency levels, but you seemed to receive the message quite well.

"Well, you've certainly improvised." There was a laugh on your lips, but he didn't feel stung, or bitter, or even the slightest bit of self-pity, as he usually did in regards to his...

(... _malfunction_.)

... condition.

He provided you with another sound, a single note of apprehension, and you offered up your servo once more. He hadn't realized it, until now, but somehow, the energon flow had slowed. Stopped, in fact. He had saved a life.

(The enemy's life, which may or may not come back to bite him in the aft, later.)

(Despite this knowledge, he felt good.)

(Great, actually.)

"Windblade."

It took him a moment to register what was said to him, but then it came to him in a sudden rush of realization. Your designation. You had entrusted him with something as sacred as your designation.

(He had heard that not every Cybertronian had been allowed their own designations following being sparked by the Well, or by their sires, and so he was faintly surprised that, despite whatever you had to go through, your trials, just to earn this bit of identity, you had shared your trials, your struggles and tears, with him in that single gesture.)

Identity was all that mattered, once upon a time.

(It was _still_ all that mattered, the reason for this war, really.)

(He knew it without being told, seeing how fiercely others clung to their designations, to who they were, what they fought for, what they _were_ , in essence. He knew identity was all that mattered. Knew it was the reason the Decepticons rose up - they had been denied their rights to an identity of their own, had been treated like faceless drones.)

(In their place, he'd probably not really enjoy that, either.)

(He couldn't imagine being anything but _Bumblebee_.)

You, _the enemy_ , had trusted him with your identity, with everything you were.

No, not _enemy_.

He would smile, but the gesture would be lost behind the guard affixed to his lip components.

(This had been one of the methods to stop the energon flow, to save his life. The field medic who had performed the surgery had informed him that he no longer needed the device, as the damage had been compensated (as well as it could be), but he kept it, a symbol of his true faith in Optimus Prime and testament to his will to continue fighting for what he believed in, whatever may happen.)

So instead, he offered his own servo, gripping yours tight.

There was a flow of warm energy from your EM field, wrapping around his, a blanket of security he hadn't felt since the last time he spoke with Whiplash. It spoke louder than either of your words ever could.

Said everything the two of you couldn't.

(Either because of physical inability or strict discipline over propriety.)

(Though he supposed that made it a _physical inability_ , as well.)

You trusted him, were worried about him, cared about his safety in this battle, in the next, for the entirety of the war. He could feel your regrets about what had been done to him, feel your fears, your sorrows, your questions and your lack of answers for any of _his_.

And Bumblebee might not know anything, as everyone continued claiming, but he did know this. You, “Windblade”, were not his enemy.

You were more than just that. More than an opponent on a battlefield.

You were his friend.

And he trusted you and cared about you more than he did for anyone else.

Even Optimus Prime.

The realization should have startled him, should have roused guilt, fear, shame.

But it didn't. It filled him with a warmth that lasted even when you’d let go and he'd left to go find his teammates. It lasted even when they had to retreat because too much had been lost and Optimus Prime was not willing to harm another single innocent party for the impossible goal of infiltrating Darkmount.

It lasted well into the night where, though he should have been recharging, he could only lie awake and smile, unbidden, like the fool he was, at the memory of what he had witnessed, of what the two of you had shared.

And this was not the _last_ time he would ever darken his optics and fall into recharge with the memory of your own ruby red optics to keep him feeling safe, needed, in the land of his dreams. But this _was_ the first time he saw _you_ in his dreams of a vibrant Cybertron.

And this was the first time he was not frightened to see the enemy alive and well in such a time of celebration. But _glad_. Because you were no enemy of his.

You were his friend. If this much he could believe in, Bumblebee would fight a thousand more battles so long as the two of you got to have your moments of quiet, of peace, from this war. A thousand more.

 

"... must be imagining things."

"No, really. He's got this glow. I mean, sure, Bee's never been a downer, really, not even considering what happened to him - "

"Shut yer mouth, ya moron. We're not s'posed to talk about that, and you know it."

"Can you let me finish?" A sigh of exasperation, then a ring of silence. The cue to continue. "There, was that so hard, 'hide? Anyway, like I was saying, he's never been a downer but this has got to be the first time he glowed like that, period. Like, seriously, you'da thought he laid optics on Primus, _himself_ , the way he's acting."

"Maybe he did. Kid was pretty slaggin' close to meetin' the feller, too."

"Then how come it took this long for such a reaction? Come on, 'hide, don't play stupid."

"I'm not playin' anything, moron."

A snicker, and then a crack. Then, "Ow! What was that for?"

"Enough of the games, the both of you," a stern voice. One Bumblebee recognized, as well.

"A thousand pardons," Jazz being the sarcastic aft he was.

"No, what were you tryna say?" Ironhide was curious, now. He'd tried to hide his intrigue, but failed miserably. Bumblebee didn't have to see Jazz's faceplates to know the slagger was grinning like he just won the whole war single-handedly.

"I think our friend, our young little Autobot scout, the youngest of us all, still a kid, practically-"

"Out with it, ya bugger, yer startin' ta sound like Bluestreak," Ironhide groused.

A shudder in his tone when he continued, "Primus knows that's a curse in and of itself."

A stern, "Now..."

"Yeah, yeah, we get it, Prowl. Don't rag on your mate. My apologies."

Before the strategist could even begin to protest, Jazz lay it on them, the fact of what he was trying to say for a few kliks, now. "I think Bumblebee's found it."

"Found what? The Allspark?"

"No, 'hide, better."

"There's something better than that?" Now the poor guy was confused.

"Yeah, man. It's called love. He's found a bondmate, somebody to care about, somebody to hold close and never let go-" Before Jazz could spring into one of those crappy love songs he so adored (only for the sake of driving everyone around him up the wall), Ironhide was grabbing ahold of his shoulders (tightly - Bee heard the sharp intake of pain) and beginning to interrogate.

"What makes you so sure, lover boy? You act like you been in love, before."

"Because I have. Duh."

"I doubt wasting your leisurely time on the high-strolling femmes of Polyhex actually counts as being _in love_ , Jazz," scolded Prowl.

"No, no, I didn't _waste_ my time, and it wasn't with a buncha femmes. It was with _the_ femme. Didn't I tell you guys? She was a special one, that one. Felt my spark kick up a notch every time I thought about those sweet purple specs o' hers. That coy smile..."

"You sure it was ya spark talkin' or yer spike?" There was boisterous snickering, and a slight protest from Jazz, but only Prowl was loud enough to be overheard scolding Ironhide for such inappropriate language in a public setting.

Bumblebee felt something in his tanks churning, and suddenly, he wasn't so intent on getting his fill of energon, anymore. He felt sick.

(Aside from their insinuations about Jazz's interfacing equipment - not an image he wanted on his processor.)

(And besides, everyone knew for a fact that _the femme_ had been a Decepticon spy. No one had the heart to remind the Communications officer of that vorn-old drama. It's like the guy reveled in torturing himself.)

He hadn't seen you on the field for a few orns, now. (Or maybe just a metacycle, but he was getting desperate, here!) He was starting to worry because, if he was to believe the gossip (and he often didn't), it sounded like Megatron had lost one of his closest allies recently. Some say they fled Cybertron (like so many were in the fashion of doing, now), others say they defected to be an Autobot, and still more ominous whispers of death were starting to take its toll.

He had been so frantic lately, that he hadn't realized this was a stark contrast to just a metacycle before, when he'd been all but glowing with happiness. (Because he'd found a friend on the other side, not because he was in love. They were so full of it, sometimes.)

Or, so, that's what he'd thought. And now, aside from worrying about _you_ (whom he hadn't seen long enough to suspect that you might have been the one Megatron lost), he was worrying about whether you thought the same (that he was in love with you).

Or whether he even knew what was going on in his own processor (or spark).

You _were_ his friend, right? Was he really only worried about you because you were his friend, or because he felt something a lot stronger? Being the youngest Autobot had its advantages, yeah, but more often than not, it only proved to be disadvantageous.

He couldn't ask, because they would all say he was in love (with the _enemy_ , no less - which was bound to get some disapproving stares to begin with). And he couldn't _not_ ask, because he was too confused about it, and he knew if he thought about it any more than he was now, he'd drive _himself_ up the walls.

Sometimes being the youngest sucked.

He got up, happy mood destroyed and thirst gone, and handed his full cube to one of the others (a femme named Arcee - she'd been thoroughly unpleasant the first time they met, but after she was partnered with Tailgate, she seemed to be cheering up a little, which meant she was being nicer to people like him). Then, he left the cafeteria.

Though he didn't get out through the doors without hearing a, "Slag, he was here the whole time? How much do you think he heard?"

_Everything, you slaghead. And by the way, thanks a lot for planting the seed of doubt. Now, when it eats me alive, I'm going to come back just to haunt you, you insufferable son of a gli-_

"Bumblebee?"

His systems backtracked (more like almost crashed and burned), and he was whirling in his confusion, wondering why, of all times, he was hallucinating your voice just now, in the middle of a moving crowd of Autobots.

It didn't make sense, seeing you there, but there you were. Just a few kliks away.

Surrounded by the enemy. _Wh - why - what is she doing here - is she nuts!?_

But no, there _he_ was, right beside you. Optimus Prime.

If he _could_ break out into a cold sweat, he swears he _would_ have right there.

Was this all some cruel joke Primus was playing on him?

(If it was, maybe he should worship Unicron, instead.)

You were giving him a look you’d never given him before. The usual certainty and confidence that gave you that glow he loved so much (no, _cherished_!) was gone.

Replaced by questioning, uncertainty, nervousness.

You _should_ be nervous. He knew for a fact that he'd be sweating _buckets_ of energon if he was surrounded by the enemy with no visible escape route.

He realized only moments later, to his horror, that his face had brightened considerably despite the distress pounding away in his spark. (Because you weren’t dead. You were okay - for _now_ , anyways. In a few kliks, you _might_ be dead.)

It brightened just because he'd laid optics on you. His processor felt light. (Didn’t he get enough energon today? Was _that_ it? Energon depletion?) And he felt giddy, suddenly.

No, _no_ , it was that stupid seed of doubt! It was already corroding away at his senses!

(Or had he always reacted like this? It hurt to think about it.)

_Better not put myself into stasis lock like a slaggin' moron._

He made a single sound conveying all his surprise and worry (and absolute fear).

You understood, somehow, impossibly, like you always did (somehow, impossibly).

"No, no, Bumblebee, it's alright. I'm fine. Optimus, sir," your optics flickered to the mech beside you (who was rather calm, for whatever reason - then again, Bumblebee couldn't remember a single moment Optimus hadn't been at ease), but quickly found his own again.

(This gesture brought a flood of warmth to his faceplates - how you could be so concentrated on _him_ when _Optimus Prime_ was standing beside you was _beyond_ him, really.)

"... leading me around and I guess I didn't expect to see you here, despite, you know, the fact that you're clearly an Autobot." A nervous laugh.

He felt concern, once more. What had happened to you? You used to be so full of confidence, of authority, of light. Why were you acting just as lost as he always felt?

Then, it all clicked. All those stories about Megatron losing an important asset, the thing those Decepticons had called you on the battlefield (Commander), the rumors that the asset had defected to the Autobot cause -

It was _you_. You, “Windblade”, a former Decepticon Commander, had defected to join the Autobots. But why? Didn't you have completely different ideals?

( _No_ , he corrected himself. No, you didn't. You had similar ideals to them. It was _Megatron_ who had lost the original cause to the power he had gained through it.)

(You had already told him this, and he'd observed it enough times on his own. Why'd he keep forgetting it? Oh, right. Because he couldn't concentrate on _anything_ when you were staring point-blank at him.)

He tried to ask what had happened, but nothing came out. Oh, Primus, no. Suddenly, he felt horrified. He realized the implications, now. Before, he hadn't been embarrassed. What had happened to him, his “improvisations” (as you called them) had been his strengths.

But he had always felt humiliated about it around the rest of the Autobots.

Afraid he sounded weird, awkward, not half so smooth as he had before.

Before the incident, he used to love the sound of his own voice, could talk for cycles on end (not like Bluestreak, though - Primus, he loved the guy, but if nobody stopped him, he would talk for the rest of eternity), but after everything had been said and done, now, he was too embarrassed to make any attempts at communication unless he was delivering a message or was absolutely forced to.

Even with Optimus Prime, who had always been the first person he felt comfortable with sharing who he was. (Who had been like a sire to him, really, since he'd never met his own.)

And now, the two of you weren't on opposite sides of the tracks, here.

And he should have been ecstatic, but he was suddenly scared stiff.

Because now you would realize it was _real_ , what Megatron had done was _irreversible_ , and you would start to look at him with that same look of pity they all tried to hide so desperately.

A wail of pain, of horror, and he saw the look on your face change drastically, as you took in his reaction to your (implied) news. But he couldn't stick around, not now, not after he had somehow (already) embarrassed himself.

He fled.

And not so much gracefully as it was a blind stumble for the hills, for some privacy, for someplace secluded. He could already feel the coolant burning at his optics, but he refused to let them fall.

He was an idiot to ever think you could be his friend. To be friends, you had to be equals, right? How could a _cripple_ ever hope to be on equal grounds with you?

_What a fool_ , he scolded himself, over and over, until the coolant was burning fiercer and dripping onto the ashes of a city that had once been great. And he felt a great hopelessness, for he realized he would always be truly alone, and it was all because of one mech.

Megatron had taken everything from him. It was like he had known where to hit and how hard. Bumblebee had no voice, no equality with any of his own comrades, no way to even identify as anyone who mattered because he couldn't even speak for roll-call.

He was an embarrassment to his own cause. He had nothing. Nothing.

Not even you.

_Especially_ not you.

 

That was not the end of it. Definitely not. Far from it.

In fact, that moment, the moment he turned tailpipe (like a coward) and ran from the truth (or what was perceived as it), that moment, that _exact_ moment, was only the beginning.

(As the young, foolish scout was soon to learn.)

(And who knows? Maybe some small part of him had always known?)

(And maybe it was that same, small part had been glad it was only the beginning.)

(Slag that small part of him.)

He knew this _now_ because he could feel the press of your backstruts to his own, could feel the way you two fit together almost perfectly, could feel the coil and release of your grasp on the trigger, and knew he was mirroring your movements (somehow) with an almost envious finesse (somehow).

 

For several (unexplained) reasons, Prowl had seen it fit to assign him a partner.

A combat partner. After he had lost Whiplash.

(The _nerve_.)

And it would have been a lot easier for the scout to convey his outrage had Optimus not suggested he be paired with _you_ , yourself. The explanation had been given, all the proper reasoning analyzed and accepted as true, as, well, _reasonable._

Everything had been decided, and though they had asked for his opinion, he'd been unable to speak his protest, mostly because he couldn't speak properly, and also because you were standing beside Optimus, optics cold, distant, _expecting_ his rejection.

(It was his own fault. The seed of doubt... he'd been an idiot. A real slaghead.)

(How could he just push you away? After everything you’d done. After how hard you had tried to make it clear that you cared for him, that you wanted to help him -)

(- though the reason behind all this still wasn't clear to him -)

(- how could he?)

And now you’d stopped trying. It had been a joor.

(He'd been keeping count of the silence. It was almost deafening. Maddening. He'd once wished for it, once hoped that you wouldn't try so hard, used to feel so sorry for himself and for all the things he could never do, never _say_ , to repay you properly.)

(Now he only wished, more than anything, for it all to come back. He wished he hadn't fragged this chance so badly. But it was too late. It was _always_ too late for him.)

( _Slag you, Megatron. Slag you for ruining_ everything.)

And you had just stopped. Hadn't spoken a word out of turn. Had resumed your duties with almost a rigid clarity. Never a joke out of place, never a smile out of context.

Never a wink when he (accidentally) chanced a look towards you.

(Never a moment to feel totally embarrassed over the rush of energon that would fill his faceplates.)

So, instead of voicing said protest (because he couldn't (because he didn't want to, anymore)), he voiced an affirmative (and _voiced_ would really be a stretch, to be honest).

(He mostly just nodded his head, trying to be entirely serious but feeling the fool.)

( _Slag you, Megatron_.)

And that was when you looked up, optics alight with your surprise.

Optimus Prime had gifted him with a smile as if he had just saved all of Cybertron with that one act of cooperation, and then he and Prowl left the two of you to be properly (re)acquainted.

But it was odd. You were giving him that cold look, that _questioning_ look.

And he couldn't help it. He squeaked (in fear - no less!).

Asking _what?_

Your hip jutted towards the side, servo balanced on the metal there. (The _sleek_ metal. He tried not to notice, he did, but he was a hopeless case, this scout.)

( _Slag you, Megatron_?)

"Not planning on screaming and running in the opposite direction, are you, scout?"

He flinched. ( _Scout_. You had reverted back to _that_? Wow, had he _slagged_ up.)

_No?_

He held out a servo, and then you were on him, screaming in rage, and he had only enough time to suck in air (though he didn't need it), terrified, suddenly, but then he realized that your blows were empty.

The pain lay behind your blue optics. ( _Blue_ \- he marveled. _Blue_ , like his.)

(But not like his. So much brighter, so full of conviction, of fire.)

(Blue like it had been red - if fire could ever be blue, those would be your optics.)

The pain, and the anger, and the righteousness of your infuriated hurt.

_He_ had hurt you, he realized. Not this war, not Megatron, not Optimus or any of the other Autobots or even the struggle inside of you. No, it was _him_. _He_ had hurt you.

"Why do you treat me like this, Bumblebee? Why? Why do you avoid me like I am your own personal plague? Why, why, _why_? Have I not proven myself? Have I not done enough for you? If I cannot have your respect, then what is the point of my betrayal? What is the point of any of this if I cannot have your friendship, your trust?"

_Me?_ He barely managed to ask, confounded and surprised. _Me? Why me?_

(And it was truly something he wanted to know. Why did you act as if it was _you_ who must measure up to _him_ , when it was clearly the other way around?)

"When has it _not_ been you, you great stupid fool? It has _always_ been all for you! Everything I do, everything I've done, since the moment we met, since the moment you tugged on my spark just by breathing out in that dark place where Megatron took your voice seconds after I came to adore it, everything I've done has always been for you! This is all for you, Bumblebee! And yet you cannot see it! You are blinded by your self-pity, and you think I see you as weak, when you should have known all this time that I cannot ever see you as anything but strong. And - and so _beautiful_."

Your voice broke, and static filled his own throat, his own ruined throat.

No, it _couldn't_ be. Were you...?

Why, why, _why_ did Primus hate him so? You, “Windblade”, the most amazing person he had ever known, the bane of his existence, the anchor that reminded him of his weakness with your strength, the one whose optics shone so bright that he could hardly see the sun without recalling how it dulled in comparison to those glass lenses of yours - why did you have to fall so quickly for him, and why did he have to be so disastrously in love with you, when he could not even _say that he felt the same_ , much less how you could never love him as he loved you?

How could he ever hope to love you how you deserved, how he _wanted_ to, when he could not even _kiss_ you how he wanted to without feeling ashamed of his ruined mouth, when he could not hold you without remembering bitterly that you deserved much better than a crippled scout?

_Wind - Windblade._

It was lost. The meaning of that simple word was lost in his throat, and he felt he could choke on the realization of what Megatron had truly taken from him. He had taken the scout's ability to tell you how much he could never hope to live with - or _without_ \- you.

He had taken Bumblebee's ability to say _I love you, too, Windblade. And I'm sorry._

_I'm so sorry._ He tried to say it, _tried_ , but there was a crackling, and a great pain in his throat, one that burned so fiercely, that he could only emit a wordless scream.

But it was nothing compared to the burning in his spark.

The burning he would feel for the rest of his life.

You looked so alarmed, then, that he would have reassured you he was okay (if he could). "No, Bumblebee. Stop. Don't do that. I don't want you to - "

You froze.

But he knew, and the fact was, your unspoken words hurt more than anything.

_I don't want you to hurt yourself._

The crippled scout. It was all Megatron would ever let him be.

In the end, he had lost. He had lost everything.

He wept so bitterly, then, cried for so long that his optics felt as if they could crack from the dryness. But you never left. Your arms wrapped around him, and you held him close, and you let him cry. Wiped the coolant from his optics again, and again, and again.

And when it was over, you whispered that you loved him, and told him that you no longer held the designation “Windblade”. He looked to you in confusion. You offered him a smile. And told him that you had renamed yourself in the very moment you left the Decepticons and decided that you were done living the life you knew you could not (because he was not by your side).

_Your choice of designation_.

_A dark silhouette against luminous matter_ , you said, by way of explanation. He wondered what you could mean. And you told him you were made, _created_ , to help them see the light you _knew_ existed inside of his spark. That your own darkness was necessary to help him shine as brightly as you knew he could, even if no one else saw it at first.

"What happened to you will not define you, Bumblebee. I will not let it, and neither will you. We were made for each other. We were. Do you believe me?"

You were crying now, your coolant brilliant against the darkness of night. It was his light in the darkness of everything (this war, Megatron, losing Whiplash, losing what he could never say, and what he never would). And he believed - he had never believed more _vividly_ in anything at that moment.

_I do. I do._

He did believe you. Because he knew somewhere in his spark that it was true.

And you had laughed, because you understood his feeble attempts to communicate this, and your lip components were soft against the guard over his mouth. Soft against his cheekplates, over his optics, against the metal of his helm.

And he shuddered, felt his spark break because he knew he could never kiss you back.

But he could wish, and it was good enough.

(But it would not be good enough, forever.)

 

And he knew, knew now _without a doubt_ , that this beginning was the longest beginning in his life, but with you at his side, with you there for him to protect and be protected by, with you at his back as you shot at the enemy, he knew it would not end this way.

This story wasn't done.

It would not be done until he retrieved what Megatron had stolen, until he was able to tell you he loved you. _Never_. The story would never end, not until you knew how much you meant to him. And he would try for a thousand more vorns to find a way to get his voice back, if only for the moment, the opportunity, to turn around and tell you he loved you more than love itself, more than Elita-One and Optimus Prime had loved one another, more than Primus loved his children, more than the moon loved that teasing sun.

And then he would kiss you, and you two would live happily ever after.

And he would finally, _finally_ , be worthy of your love.

 

Bodies of metal fell like smoke around the two of you, and if it weren't for the almost drunken joy he felt around you, Bumblebee would have felt when his tanks churned at the sight, as they once did after his initial enlistment to the forces.

It was an ugly fact of life. He had long accepted that this is what Cybertron was, now. That it was what it had _always_ been (to him), for he had never seen what most would sigh and recall as, _the Golden Age_.

(What you would call _the Age of Lies_ , before falling completely silent.)

He had yet to understand whether the two concepts were one in the same.

(Rafael Esquival would later explain to him the concept of the Gilded Age, where to the privileged, _all was well_ , but to those on the bottom, to the rest of the world watching, suffering, as the well-to-do rejoiced, it was the absolute _worst_.)

He could _feel_ more than he _saw_ the grace in your gait, the way you kneeled to close the optics of your fallen opponents (once allies for a common cause - once your friends and confidantes), but he knew you were crying, shedding tears for them and berating, hating yourself for the way things had turned out, because you could not gift the world with the same happiness you felt with him, because you could only give them death instead of the love you wanted all to feel.

And he felt something like regret in his own spark, because he was too young to understand, and too foolish to know where to start. So, he didn't speak (because he couldn't), instead opting for helping you in your task, silently, dutifully, with an almost reverent air of _it must be done_.

He had not learned his sense of honor from any of his comrades, but from _you_. From  your choice of designation. You would not strike down an opponent unable to fight back, and you would honor any death as a fellow Cybertronian, not as a Decepticon or Autobot, but as another life lost to this now-meaningless war.

Another life returned to the well too-soon.

He had seen the understanding, the comprehension, in Optimus Prime's optics, when the Prime had beheld this great and noble act of humanity (he called it now, for lack of better word - Rafael found it touching), and he knew that the Prime felt the same.

He had always suspected that the Prime was a good mech, through and through, but he had not known this for a _fact_ until he saw that the Prime had taken your actions as a lesson to all Autobots: _it is not the warrior that matters most, nor the victor, but the saved, and the lost_.

This was no longer just a war to the Prime (as most had suspected it never had been). This was a struggle between right and wrong. He did not want to kill his own people, Decepticon nor Autobot, nor civilian, nor medic, nor Seeker, any more than Primus wanted them to kill each other. And so he tried to avoid it, tried to harm only when it was inevitable, only under dire circumstances. He lived a life of honor, most would say, and you, to Bumblebee's surprise, would agree, wholeheartedly.

(You had once confided in him that you had not believed Orion Pax to be worthy of being a Prime, for he had been said to be too easy to deceive, too young, too foolish, but after seeing who he was, and after witnessing the extent of the kindness in his spark, and knowing that his intentions were pure, you realized he may be _too_ good for the status of even a Prime. You told him that perhaps Optimus was born in the wrong place and at the wrong time, that he deserved to observe happiness and love and compassion instead of the darkness that Cybertron had become. You joked that perhaps he was Primus incarnate, and Bumblebee found himself agreeing, as he found himself always doing towards what you believed - because he had never met another who could be so right without even trying.)

Once the deed had been finished, you stood tall, as you always did, and raised your servos to the sky, as was customary after every battle (you won), to ask Primus that he look not upon their brands, not upon their deeds in life, not upon their mistakes and failures and mistaken cruelties, but that he consider that they were his children, and they deserved the happiness following death that life had neglected them all.

He felt his own optics prick with the sensation of sadness, of grief, of strength and hope, that emanated from your EM field and overflowed so easily into his (because he would never, and had never, even _begun_ to contemplate closing himself to you). And then you were turning to face him, and your smile told him the time for sadness had passed.

_ Your choice of designation _ _..._

"Bee, what have I told you about slouching? You are a great mech, my beloved, and deserve only to view yourself, and to _be_ viewed, as such. Where is the pride, the confidence, that I fell in love with?" the last part was mostly meant to tease, and it worked. He felt his spark lightening once more, and then the sadness was replaced by the same sheepishness he felt whenever your penetrating optics found his.

_Right, pride and confidence... Enough for a kiss, my beloved?_

Now _he_ was the one teasing, and you laughed, an easy, free sound in the cold and devastating air of the war around you two. And he could feel himself fall deeper in love with you, if at all possible, because how could one sound brighten up the world and make the spilled energon glow like gold?

_(The Golden Age... If there was ever one, it is now, every time I lay my optics on you, and you smile as if I've graced you with something far greater.)_

It was what he would not say but wished he could, and he wouldn't dare tear the meaning apart with a redundant series of clicks and whirrs. If only there was some way he could record them, could write them down, could save them to his processor so that he could one day say them to you (when and if he ever got his voice back).

( _Slag you to the pits you crawled out of, Megatron._ )

Oh, no, not _those_. Those words were saved especially for a certain warlord.

Instead, he came closer and pressed his helm to yours, in just the way you had taught him during all your nights spent listening to the world around you two, you laughing at things he 'said' and him feeling his spark soar as you spoke tales of your early childhood, told stories that he had heard a thousand times before (from all his mentors) and yet made them new with your voice, made them exciting and worth remembering (only because _you_ had spoken them).

And you quieted, returning the gesture as your optics met his.

"I feel as if I should die happily at this moment, Bumblebee."

_(As do I, every moment we're together and every moment I feel your spark pulsate inside my own when we're apart.)_

 

Perhaps Jazz was correct in his (direct) advances.

(Though Prowl had chided him for being so “untoward”, the scout wound up thanking him, because he was a genius, and slag it if no one ever saw fit to say so.)

Perhaps it _would_ do him some good to keep these thoughts recorded so that he may say them one day to you, so that he would have a reason to keep fighting for the recovery of his voice instead of giving up and living with the idea of never speaking at all. As always, you would be his reason to keep on _keeping on_ , as Bluestreak would say it.

(And he felt no shame in admitting to himself that you had become the reason for most things, to him. No shame at all.)

 

Of course, this was all vorns ago, now.

All those silly, childish, beautiful moments spent laughing (or _laughing in his own way_ ) with his comrades, making silly little plans and daydreaming about a brighter day on Cybertron when all these dreams would be reality.

They were all gone, destroyed, dead as Cybertron.

He had lost almost everyone he cared about, either to death (Tailgate, Cliffjumper, Prowl, Ironhide, Hound, Crosshairs, even that blasted Drift), or to the confines of deep space, where their fates were uncertain (countless Autobots and civilians, alike).

And he had almost lost _you_. For a long, long time, he thought you were dead, or lost, like the others. And he really, really hoped you were only lost, only confused, but something inside of his spark dreaded knowing the truth.

Earth was a beautiful planet, filled with vibrant greens he had never seen on Cybertron, and vibrant blues that reminded him of energon, but the blue was purer, innocent, filled with life and creation instead of the implications of death and war.

He made many friends here - the soldiers who helped them fight back against Megatron's forces before they were forced to disband their (temporary) alliance (like Sergeant Epps and Captain Lennox - and even Lennox's cute little girl and his smiling, blushing bride), Samuel Witwicky (his closest friend for years on this planet, the one person he could talk with and laugh with and be immature around without fearing judgment, and the one person who actually trusted him enough to do the same - and then he was killed, violently, brutally, by Starscream), Mikaela Banes (Sam's girlfriend for some time before they broke up - she had been so sweet to him, so funny, so full of life and opinions, such a strong girl, that she went on to become a reporter in New York City without ever looking back - and he was proud of her for it, but he also really treasured that she still called him to reminisce and cry every time she remembered Sam and how, even though she claimed not to love him, she still had when Starscream had shredded him like paper before her very eyes), Carly Spencer, Tessa Yeager and her father Cade, Shane...

And now, Rafael Esquival, a boy too young to remember any of the events that involved any of those faces in the past that Bumbleebee would never forget. He was quite possibly the best and closest confidante he had (somehow) found during the entirety of the war, end of discussion, period.

He didn't know why Primus continued to bless his life with such wonderful people when he never knew how to _take care_ of said people, but this time, he was really trying hard not to lose someone else (to Starscream, who apparently _loved_ killing his human friends). And then it happened.

You showed up, out of the blue, alongside Wheeljack.

And he just couldn't even _breathe_ when he saw you (not that he needed to), because he had thought all this time, _dreaded_ all this time, that the memory of your optics was the only part of you he had left.

For a long time, he could hardly wrap his mind around it. You were alive.

_Alive_.

He just gawked at you, like he'd never seen you before in his life, or like he couldn't quite believe you existed (or both), and the others were murmuring around him, but he couldn't make sense of their words.

Because you were looking right at him. You all-but-threw yourself out of the battle that had waged (quite recently) between Wheeljack and Dreadwing, and for a moment, he couldn't believe it, but he realized you were hightailing it in his direction only when you had slammed almost painfully into him.

If he had to breathe, the air would have been knocked from his (nonexistent) lungs. He struggled to ask why, to ask where you’d been, to ask _so many things_ , but all he could do was choke on his own happiness as you held him close and cried and laughed and then punched him in the shoulder-plate, before tearing off his mouthguard and gluing your lip-plates to his in a searing kiss (his _first_ one, FYI) that left even Optimus Prime stunned.

He would normally be (and probably _should_ have been) absolutely _mortified_ to realize that he couldn't exactly return the gesture correctly, or that you had brought him to this realization when there were other people (his teammates, his _enemy_ ) standing witness, but the thing is - he didn't feel a damn ounce of shame, at all.

You were alive, and you were holding him - _kissing him!_ \- and all he wanted was for this moment to never end. So he held onto you just as desperately as you held onto him, and then you were pulling away, because even though you two would rather pause all reality to hold onto that moment of fantastical happiness, both of you knew this was something you would have to save for another time (to revisit, he hoped, so he could do it _right_ , without witnesses).

To say that the enemy was surprised would be an understatement. Clearly, Dreadwing had not expected such a lively reunion from two Autobots, or perhaps it had just never been made clear to the enemy that you, formerly their own Commanding Officer, had taken up an interest in (and _intimate relation_ with) the very same yellow scout maimed and left for dead by their liege Lord Megatron. Either way, Dreadwing took that moment of shock to full advantage, and was thus able to get away.

(Though not before the gas station blew up.)

(Bumblebee just _knew_ Wheeljack was going to get scolded for this.)

You were apologetic, sincerely feeling like scrap for causing the Autobots so much trouble, but Arcee was quick to reassure you that there was no trouble from you, or even from _Wheeljack_. Bulkhead agreed - so did Optimus (who added that he only wished you two would take your lives more seriously and take more care to preserve yourselves for those who loved you most).

They asked Wheeljack about his return, and he didn't waste time in explaining about his personal vendetta against the 'con they'd just allowed to escape, claiming he had offlined a fellow ex-Wrecker, Seaspray, and it was the whole reason he (and you - whom he'd had _no idea_ had any connection to Team Prime - though he more or less said this to tease the two of you) had followed Dreadwing back to Earth.

The rest didn't matter, because Bumblebee couldn't take his optics off of you - off his _bondmate_ \- long enough to care about any of what the others were saying.

_ Your choice of designation. _

You appeared to be startled.

"Oh, Bee, you still use those frequencies?" you didn't appear disappointed. Rather the opposite. "I'm glad. I heard tell from Jazz that you had found yourself a new method of communication, one I was sure to struggle with understanding."

_More like adjusting to. I never did._

The human radio systems were fun, and all, but as a method of communication, far too _confusing_ to manage. He'd mostly done it for the sake of his friends (Sam, Lennox, Epps, Mikaela, all of those losers he missed so, _so_ much). He was relieved not to need it, anymore, though the implications of loss that impressed upon him was almost enough to rob him of any relief he felt.

(He also really wondered how it was that Raf could understand him so well, but as to that, he decided it wasn't in his place to ask. Or _was_ it? Raf had told him he could trust him and ask him anything, so maybe this _did_ bear questioning...)

Mostly, he was just really excited to introduce you to Rafael. You were the two people he cared about the most, and he just _knew_ that you were going to love each other very much. (You expressed some interest in the native species of this planet, saying that their radio waves were, "Amusing.")

(Of course, Arcee _had_ to drily remark that, "that's about the only thing I find _amusing_ in regards to them - the kids aren't exactly comedian material.")

(Which he just found so funny - considering who Arcee was and all - that he couldn't stop laughing, even after Arcee gave him a stern look.)

And he was right, of course. Once he had introduced you two (back at base), you two hit it off like you’d known each other far longer. Miko took the news with a grain of salt, and Jack, well, Jack mostly just tried to avoid thinking about giant alien robots doing any of the normal "couple stuff".

("Mostly 'cause he's a prude," Miko was quick to say, which Jack quickly rebuffed by asking what she even knew about relationships, _herself_.)

After some time, it was decided, mostly by the others in a unanimous vote, that you and Bumblebee were to be left alone to “properly reconcile your time apart” (Optimus' choice of words), and the two of you went out for a drive.

He showed you around, of course, but he wasn't really interested in the scenery.

And neither were you, it would seem.

You both took to your root modes (far from human eyes, of course), and the scout took your servo with one of his own, bright blue optics shining as he clicked and whirred away with excitement.

You found it so endearing that you started to laugh shortly before you burst into tears.

Astonished (and alarmed), he inquired as to what was wrong, if anything had happened (had you lost anyone on the way here?), whether he had said (the thought was _laughable_ ) anything to cross the line, but you just waved away his concerns.

"No, my scout, I'm just so happy to see you again. I thought I never would. I thought the last I'd see of you was that sad look in your optics."

Ah. The splitting of the Ark. He remembered it (not so) fondly. You had to stay behind to help with repairing the controls for the hub of the Ark, and he had taken an escape pod (because you wouldn't give him any other options).

He was glad Optimus had been afforded the same responsibility ("your duty to your people is to survive, Optimus, not to go down with the Ark - that is _my_ job," Prowl had stated quite clearly, leaving no room for argument).

Otherwise, where would he have gone? But still, the pain of saying goodbye (and thinking it would be the last one) to _you_ , the femme he loved more than Cybertron's future, itself?

It had been excruciating to experience.

(On both ends.)

Speaking of which...

_How did you survive? Prowl said there was a 5% chance of anyone making it out alive if they didn't take the escape pods._

"Prowl certainly isn't an optimist, I can tell you that much," you said with the faint glimmer of a smile on your features.

_Isn't?_

"He's out there, somewhere. Last I saw of him, he and Bluestreak were a very happy couple."

_You're serious?_

"Yeah! He's alive, Bumblebee, trust me."

_No, him and Bluestreak? Wonder how that's gonna turn out. The eternal pragmatist and the eternal chatterbox._

There was a wicked gleam in his optics, and you laughed, a sound more of mock surprise than anything. "My dear sir, are you insinuating they aren't meant to be?"

_If anyone can put up with Bluestreak's mouth long enough to consider doing anything with it other than taping it closed, maybe that slagger is right for him, after all._

You laughed, and you didn't stop laughing for some time, and you know what? He didn't mind. He loved listening to you laugh. It felt like a piece of him he hadn't even known was missing had just suddenly come back to him without warning, without interference, and fit right in, and the whole world stopped spinning. Now, everything made sense, again. Now, he remembered why (as if he'd ever forgotten) he'd fallen in love with you.

And boy, did he mean to try that kissing thing, again, someday.

No, forget "someday".

He caught you by the metal of your elbow, pulling you in close mid-laugh and pressing his lips to yours, feeling glad that he wasn't even worried about you feeling disgusted by his condition (because it meant he had truly come to feel confident about where you stood in regard to that situation). And he was right - you didn't push him away.

In fact, you pulled him in closer, and suddenly, it was like the heat of the desert filtered in through his cold metal, and he just knew that this need for friction he was feeling, the pure love and longing he felt, was not just his own.

You had allowed your EM field to merge with his, and you made your intentions very clear.

(It wasn't as if it was your first time interfacing - no, quite the _opposite_. It was only that he had never been kissed before because he had always been too embarrassed to do anything with the one part of him he _insisted_ was ruined.)

(So, he supposed the act of ignoring this previous insecurity just to share a kiss with you really did some things to tamper with your sense of stability.)

_We're gonna have to find someplace private._

"Right. It would be downright scandalous to have a friend - or foe - catch us in the act."

You were teasing, he knew. Especially because you winked at him.

And he felt like a newly recruited trooper, all over again, when you swayed those hips and beckoned for him to follow in a 'come hither' motion before transforming and racing away down the tracks.

He made quick work of following, to put it lightly.

 

"Hey, whatcha doin', Bee?"

His sense of peace drifted from the words inscribed onto the data pad in his servo, and his optics met those of his close friend, Rafael. Smart kid, that one. He briefly found himself wondering what could be causing that expression of confusion on such a genius' face, then realized Raf was staring very intently at the data pad he himself had been working on just a few kliks ago.

_Anything I can help you with, Raf?_

He didn't mean to sound so nervous, but... come on, these were his _private thoughts_ , here!

And how was he supposed to explain the concept of _romance_ to a kid, anyways?

"Well, um, I was just wondering," began the brunette, nervously pushing his glasses up by the bridge of its nose, a cute habit that made Rafael all the more endearing to the scout, "what exactly _is_ that, Bee?"

Damnit. He found himself unable to lie, especially not to that innocent face, so filled with curiosity and an earnest need to understand, to aide, so Bumblebee sighed, and steeled himself with enough nerve to communicate the truth.

(Of course, after making sure that you were nowhere within hearing distance.)

_This, my young friend, is everything I've ever wanted to say to your choice of designation, everything I've ever been unable to say the way I wanted it said, and everything I've ever dreamed of confessing to her. In short, this is a list of the things I plan, and have been planning for vorns, to tell her once I get my voice back._

He paused, then, remembering everything that had happened since they’d arrived, since this war had _begun_ , and he grew solemn.

If _I ever get my voice back._

His friend didn't say anything, just looked at him, downright _stared_ at him, and he knew that someone with more courage, like Miko, would've told him how silly he was being by now. But Raf was too nice to say that.

So, he said it for him.

_I know, pretty stupid, huh?_

"No, Bee, I think that's the most wonderful thing I've ever heard anyone say, voice box or not," just to prove he wasn't lying, or saying what he believed Bumblebee wanted to hear, Rafael smiled up at him with that brilliant smile that let the scout know he was being as honest as he could possibly be. And Bumblebee felt his spark warm.

_You really think so? You don't think it's stupid, or silly, or child-like?_

"Actually, I've never felt more inspired. See, since I met you, Bee, I've learned a lot of stuff from you, like courage, and doing the right thing even when you're scared, and believing in your friends even when they can't believe in themselves, but this - this is something I _know_ I'll definitely never forget. You and  your choice of designation really taught me what it means to truly love somebody - the willingness to see past the things that person thinks makes them lesser than everyone else, and _show_ them, every-day, that nothing matters more than being together, and loving each other, and understanding each other with more than just the five senses - _with the heart_. Bee, what you've got, if it's not real love, I don't know what _is_. And that's not stupid, or silly, or child-like. It's _admirable_. It's what love should be for everyone, and I'm just happy to see that you have that, because if anyone deserves it most, it's you."

When the scout felt his spark fill with warmth and love for Rafael, he wasn't at all surprised. And not the least bit ashamed when the coolant fell from his optics, even when Ratchet scolded him for being a fully-grown mech and crying like a sparkling in public.

He would never forget Rafael Jorge Gonzales Esquivel. Never.

And he was going to keep working on this list until it felt like he had run out of things to say, and then some, because his human friend was right - love wasn't something he should be ashamed of. He should be proud of sharing something so special with you, and he was sure if you were here, and if you had heard all that, you would have agreed, very furiously -

\- and, in fact, scolded Ratchet for scolding him.

(Like you were doing right now.)

 

Even as he breathed, as he moved, he could hardly believe it. It was really over. He had heard your screams of pain, of anguish, the roars of his leader, and something had just woken inside his dead spark, kicked him back into it.

Maybe it was the need to survive for you all, for all the people he loved (who loved him), and maybe it was because he couldn't let Megatron win and destroy those same people, couldn't just die and let Megatron keep taking things away from him like this - nonetheless, whatever the reason may be, he had awoken.

And he had ended it, at long, long last. The ageless struggle that had cost him so much, so many loved ones, their planet, their comrades. He had ended it with one final blow to that malicious, hate-filled spark, and though he hadn't known whether Megatron would understand him, or care to listen, he had said what needed to be said, what he felt was right.

He had called for the warlord, who had turned in his momentary surprise, and then he had pierced him right where it counted, and said, more or less to himself, to Megatron, to _Primus_ , even: "You took my voice. You will never rob anyone of anything, ever again."

He watched as the warlord dropped his blade, fell in a haze of hellish purple flames back to the very same planet he had terrorized for years and tried to destroy numerous times, and felt nothing but a sick sense of glee when he remembered the way Megatron had kneeled before him, if only momentarily, accepting defeat, conceding the battle of the ages, accepting that the Autobots had won at last.

And then his blue optics had met yours, when the others parted, as if making way, and by now, he had realized only one thing: he could finally say it all, everything he had ever planned, everything he had ever written down, but he didn't have his data pad with him.

And that didn't even bother him. Because vorns of thinking it, of writing those words, over and over, of rehearsing them, _didn't_ _matter_ , suddenly. All that mattered was that he could say those three words to you, now, and really, really know that it never _had_ mattered in the first place.

Because you had always known.

You had always felt every word he wanted to say, and you had always loved him for those words, the sad ones, the mad ones, the terribly funny ones, the ones that made you cry and the ones that made you want to die happily.

And though he knew you must have felt it echoed in his every sigh, in his every kiss, in every time you touched fingers, he said them, anyway.

"I love you, your choice of designation."

Because he could.


	2. Lies and Secrets|| IDW Transformers: More Than Meets the Eye || Rodimus Prime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love doesn't always win.
> 
> You've always known that, always thought less of anyone who claimed otherwise. Duty before the self: the Empire before the spark. It was always the way you knew best, and because of it, you'd never faltered.
> 
> Until now. But, as always, you know how this will end. And it makes the flight all the more terrifying before the fall.

“Lies and secrets, Tessa, they are like a cancer in the soul. They eat away what is good and leave only destruction behind.”

― Cassandra Clare, _Clockwork Prince_

The sound of a closing door echoed through the admittedly impressive space that the others called _the Captain's quarters_. All this space made you feel smaller, still, and you were tempted to see if you could hide away from that penetrating pair of optics.

Surely, one corner or another could fold around your frame and obscure you from view?

You did not like being at a disadvantage - you had learned long ago to cease viewing your size as a weakness, but, singled out and cornered as you were, all that confidence you had been forced to build in order to survive seemed to fall away like a frail house of cards.

Had he _somehow_ come to learn of your treachery?

You had been so certain that you had hidden away your secret where no one could find it. ( _In your helm_. No physical proof existed - if it had, it would have been found, by now, what with Red Alert having been making discreet sweeps of each habsuite every passing cycle.)

And though he was gone, you still didn't feel it to be a particularly good idea to store what knowledge you had, both of this ship and of your continuing partnership with Soundwave, anywhere else _but_ your processor.

You knew you needed to calm yourself, to wipe your expression clear of any lingering guilt.

It was far too late to feel sorry for anything you _had done_ or _were doing_ \- all you could do now was deny, deny, deny. If you continued to linger on your guilt and shame, sooner or later, your own expression would give you away.

(To your own dismay - you had never been particularly good at hiding how you felt.)

"I know."

And just like that, your EM field slipped from your tight grasp, and your guilt flowed free like a ribbon of energon. You tried to swallow, but your glossa felt dry, like sandpaper.

"What?"

"You're wondering why I called you here so late at night. Everyone else is recharging, but not _you_. And not _me_. And you're wondering why that is."

"I - _yes_."

His gaze was unwavering, firm. You fought back a flinch.

He could crush you if he wanted to. You were small enough that even if you put up a fight, you'd be no match for him. Rodimus wasn't Captain of the _Lost Light_ because he was _kind-sparked_ , after all.

He was Captain because he was, arguably, one of the strongest Autobots left.

You took an involuntary step back, calculating the distance between where your pedes were planted and the hangar for the escape pods. And then you tried to guess how far you would make it before he reacted and shot you down.

You knew you wouldn't make it out the door.

(You tried not to let yourself lose hope. The struggle was bleak, devastating.)

"You keep recordings of us. Of everyone on this ship."

"I'm an archivist. It's what I do." Though you knew it was pointless to argue, pointless to fight back, pointless to act like you had a chance in the Pits of escaping this conflict, you had always been stubborn. You would not go down without a fight.

No - you _refused_.

"There's no need to get defensive, your choice of designation." He threw up his servos in what you assumed must be his attempt to placate you, calm you down. Make you drop your guard. _Well, it's not going to work._ You held your chin up high, defiant.

"Really? Because you sound like you're accusing me of something, Captain. I got enough of that from Drift - I don't need to hear it from _you_ , too."

"What?" his expression shifted. He was confused; his faceplates gave _that_ much away. " _He_ knew, too? Why didn't he explain this to me, then? I wouldn't have had to call you down here."

"What are you talking about?"

Now _you_ were confused. Hadn't Drift told him about - ?

 _No, he hadn't_. It dawned on you. How could you be so stupid and give yourself away when he wasn't even _suspecting_ you of that, yet? How were you going to explain this, now?

You felt like tearing out your own glossa - _what a_ ** _fool_**! Soundwave had always warned you against jumping to conclusions, and you had never listened.

 _Why_ hadn't you listened?

"What are _you_ talking about?" he fired back.

Your optics shuttered, and you turned your helm away, shame flooding your circuits.

The silence was answer enough.

"Okay, I don't care about whatever happened between you and Drift. Unless it's going to become a problem. _Is_ it going to become a problem?" He folded his arms across his chasis.

"No, sir." (You couldn't muster the strength to pick up your helm and look him in the optics.)

(Your poor spark was spluttering. _Those fools_. _Those stupid, naive, no-good, too-trusting fools_.)

"Good." He appeared to be relieved. "I think we've had enough trouble, your choice of designation. I would _really_ hate to be forced to start watching the shadows on my own ship, what with Brainstorm, and Getaway," he gestured helplessly, intending for you to get the gist without needing to delve too deep into his own mistakes as the Captain.

"Maybe you _should_ ," you muttered.

His squinted at you, the blue in his optics reminding you of the skies over Cybertron shortly before being engulfed in flames and smoke. "Careful. Don't start getting testy. You're not in the clear, _yet_."

"Why _am_ I here, Captain? I don't see you getting angry with _Rewind_ , dead _or_ alive version, for keeping records of our travels, so why is it so different if _I_ do it?" The moment he had warned you against getting _testy_ , you suddenly felt very much like doing _exactly_ what he didn't want.

(You admitted, wordlessly, to feeling a sting of guilt upon witnessing the way he cringed at the mention of the dead archivist (the other one). You didn't believe he would ever really move on from that _little incident_ , even if they _had_ somehow, _miraculously_ , recovered another Rewind from another _Lost Light_. _Another chance for Chromedome_ , you mused wryly.)

"Why? Because you don't just _keep_ these records. You _use_ them for your own sick 'entertainment'."

"What - ?" you spluttered, energon rushing into your faceplates and making your helm feel lighter than the air you vented. "I don't - What are you - ?"

"What am I implying?" He pushed away from the edge of his berth, where he had been perched, at a safe distance from _you_. His form drew closer, and then, he was peering down into your optics. "I think you know _exactly_ what I'm implying."

"I would never - !"

"Yes, you _would_. And yes, you _have_. I _know_ you have. I _saw_ the way you looked at him." His expression was filled with disdain. "I have optics, you know, and so does everyone else. I'm surprised _he_ didn't know. You looked almost ashamed of yourself when you looked at him. And you have _every reason_ to be. I know what kind of 'bot he used to be, your choice of designation, and I know you two used to work together back before he chose _us_. But he _isn't_ that bot, anymore. He did something lousy by sneaking Overlord onboard, but -- he's changed. I _know_ he has. Have some respect, would you?"

"What in the Pits - do you even _know_ what you're saying? I am not **_sick_**!"

He paused, but only because standing so close to you enabled him to see the coolant pushing against the glass of your optics. "I respected him like I will _never_ respect anyone else on this blasted ship! He'd once been nothing but _kind_ to me, despite knowing what I've done and -- and seeing how hard it was for me to _socialize_ with the very same people who used to be my enemies! _Yes_ , he accused me of crimes I hadn't committed, but he wasn't _cruel_ about it. He was trying to help me, misguided as he was, and I _did_ appreciate it, no matter how furious he made me. Don't you **_dare_** act like you know anything about me, Captain -- you don't know a _damned thing_!"

He didn't say anything, watching your small chasis heave as you struggled to catch your breath. Your optics shined with coolant, but due to the tint in your visor, he couldn't see anything else.

(He felt frustration leak into his circuits. He couldn't _stand_ that stupid thing.)

"I know that the two of you used to share a physical relationship, or that you wish you had been _brave enough to_ before it was too late."

" _No_. No, I would _never_ think of him in such an impure manner." You shook your helm. " ** _No_**. I just _can't_. It's not _right_ to think like that. Not about _Drift_."

"Oh? So you feel like that about someone else?"

Now, he was just yanking your chain. Trying to see how far he could push you.

He had seen you lose your temper before, maybe once or twice, but _never_ at himself.

You were usually much more courteous towards, and respectful of, him.

(Moreso than towards _everyone else,_ which was _really_ saying something.)

(But _why_? Because of who he was? Because of his position?)

(It was difficult to tell with that blasted visor hiding your every emotion.)

"Why do you think so _poorly_ of me, Captain?" your voice was filled with anguish.

He felt as if someone had punched him in the spark-casing.

"I -- I _don't_. I was told that you were reviewing your tapes late at night. _Minimus_ , you know how he can be. He was -- he was _worried_. He didn't want -- "

"Another _betrayal_?" This time, _he_ was the one who felt shame pour over his spark. You knew. He didn't have to ask -- he could hear it clear as day in your voice. You knew - or you were accusing him without knowing for sure.

"Yeah. I guess so."

"Well, don't you worry, _Captain_. I'm practically harmless, remember? Just a _sick minibot_ who's really of no danger to anyone but hers -- "

Your biting response was (abruptly) cut off when he knelt before you, peering down into your optics through the film of your visor. "Please, your choice of designation. Just tell me what's going on. I don't _want_ to be suspicious of you. I just want this nightmare to be over."

You were silent, gauging his sincerity.

You apparently decided to take him at face value, because you didn't tell him to _get bent_ (or anything similar -- which was what he'd been expecting). "I take those recordings for the archives, Captain. _Honestly_. That's the whole reason I do it."

"So -- "

"But sometimes, I start to feel," you combed your processor for the right word, and settled for, "lonely."

He raised an optical ridge. Sure, he had assumed it was something like that. It wasn't really anything to be ashamed of. Every 'bot had needs -- he knew that. He had his own needs, too, and you being so close, alone with him, in his habsuite, during recharging hours - well, it wasn't helping to quell the urges.

But knowing what he did, he hadn't expected you to come clean about those ... _urges_.

He could only assume that some bots just didn't feel ashamed of their bodies, or their needs.

"I don't use the recordings for -- for what you _think_ I use them for. Ever since the incident with the sparkeater, I feel scared when I'm alone, no -- **_terrified_**. Terrified, and _sad_. Sometimes I start wondering if I'll ever see Cybertron again, if I'll make it through this quest, or even live through the next cycle. I'm not strong like you or Ultra Magnus, and I'm not quick like Drift, or smart like Perceptor, or even a quick study like Skids. I don't have anyone to protect me, like Tailgate or Rewind. I don't even have _friends_ , like Swerve or Rung. Sometimes, I feel like I've never been more alone than when I'm surrounded by the 'bots here on this ship."

He didn't say anything to interrupt you, afraid that if he opened his mouth, you would be too embarrassed to tell him anything else, and would ask to leave the habsuite. He had no right to make you stay - even if _you_ didn't know that.

"I used to **_be_** someone, back with the Decepticons. I used to _matter_. No one did anything without checking with me, because I had every record up-to-date, every order and demand filed accordingly. I was Lor -- _sorry, old habits_ \-- Captain Megatron's personal archivist. I used to have a _place_ beside Soundwave, and even though no one knew just by looking, he cared about _every_ partnership he forged, including ours. I used to _belong_. But I feel so out-of-place here, because you're _right_ \-- Drift is here, but he's different. He doesn't shun me, or treat me like his enemy, yes, but that's as far as his kindness extends. Trust can be very difficult to earn here, as I've learned the hard way. At least, back on the _Nemesis_ , if you were _loyal_ , you were _set_." You blinked the coolant out of your optics, frustrated with yourself for your weakness. "And _everyone else_ here? They don't _know_ me, and they don't _care_. I don't know _why_ I bothered to tag along. I should have taken my chances on Cybertron, but here I am, and it's too late to go back. And the only person I felt like I could ever truly  understand -- _he's gone_. So, _yes_ , sometimes, I use those recordings. But not to -- to -- do _whatever_ you think I do with them. I listen to those voices to try and convince myself that I'm _not_ alone, that I _belong_ here. That I _still_ matter."

He watched you press a fingertip along the side of your helm, and your visor was _gone_ , just like that. He was astonished -- he had never seen your faceplates so _clearly_ , until now. The curves of your faceplates were defined, your optics captivating in that golden hue of theirs. Golden -- like his paintjob. But _stunning_ , moreso.

You were -- you were --

"Beautiful."

You were surprised. It was evident in the quirk of your mouth.

" _What_?"

"I mean -- " he coughed, feeling embarrassment seeping into his joints. "Why do you _wear_ that thing, your choice of designation? Seems kinda unncessary, now, doesn't it? This is a time of _peace_. There's no need to hide from everyone."

"On the contrary, as soon as I turn my back on you, you start to think the worst. You've given me no reason to trust you, Captain. No reason at all. And everyone else here is the same, if not _worse_."

Your fingers lifted, but he was faster.

He caught your wrist. "And _Drift's_ voice. Do you use it?"

"I -- _yes_."

"Why? Doesn't he keep his distance, now? Isn't that what you said? How is a 'bot who barely tolerates you of any _comfort_ to you?"

You said nothing in response, hesitating.

"I thought so -- you _lied_ to me. There's more going on between you two than just _tolerance_."

He was surprised by his own anger. Why did he _care_?

He had never given a _damn_ about Drift's personal relationships -- until now.

So why -- could he be angry at you for knowing something about Drift that _he_ didn't?

( _No_. That wasn't it.)

So why - ?

"His voice is the one that makes me the happiest." Your voice was small.

Something was pounding in his spark, a foreign _pain_ that hurt worse than any blow he'd ever been dealt. "So, _what_? Do you _get off_ on that, then? Do you _like_ it when people are mean to you?"

" ** _No_**!" you protested. "He just has a very soothing voice. I'm sorry, Captain! I'm sorry if I trespassed onto your personal relationship with him, if I crossed any lines. I didn't _mean_ to -- " you made a small noise of misery.

Why did you think he was getting possessive about _Drift_? Hadn't you seen how _easy_ it was for him to exile Drift from the _Lost Light_? (It was _far_ too easy -- he still thought about it, sometimes, worried that he might be a bigger _bastard_ than anyone had ever assumed.)

If he'd been in love with Drift, it wouldn't have _been_ so easy, no matter _what_ kind of bastard he was or wasn't.

"And how does _my_ voice make you feel?"

You blinked, sniffling as you brought your other servo up to wipe at your optics.

He realized he still had a tight grip on one of your wrists, and realized it must have hurt, judging by the look on your faceplates. He was squeezing much harder than he cared to admit.

Rodimus released you hastily. He didn't like what you were turning him into.

It was almost as if every time you said Drift's name, his spark wanted to shrink into nothing and shatter, all at once.

"Your voice?"

You were _so confused_. You hadn't felt this confused in quite some time.

(This was (uncannily) similar to when Soundwave had initially propositioned you.

You hadn't known how to respond back then, either.)

"Yes," he almost growled it out. "Don't play coy, your choice of designation, and just _answer_ me. What does _my_ voice do to you? Does it have the same effect on you as yours does on me? Do you even _bother_ to listen to anything I say, or am I just an _incompetent former Prime_ to you -- like I am to everyone else?"

" _Captain_ ," you were astonished, but he didn't give you enough time to ask.

"Just tell me."

His tone was sharp, unapologetic.

This time, you _did_ flinch.

"It makes me feel like maybe all this suffering will be worth it, in the end."

He felt his spark freeze. Were you saying - ?

"I hear the confidence ringing in your voice, and you sound like you're giving everyone who's ever doubted you _the finger_. I wish I could be _half_ as brave as you are -- and I can only _imagine_ what it'd be like to captivate everyone's attention just by opening my mouth. You make this _impossible suicide mission_ sound like a walk in the park, and I envy anyone who's ever gotten close enough to call you friend, or -- "

You stopped yourself before you could say too much (although you probably already had).

That last part wasn't supposed to escape the darkest recesses of your mind, _ever_.

But with all those _questions_ \-- you'd gotten nervous, and almost blurted out your own pitiful, stupid, ridiculous, _embarrassing_ secret, one you would _never_ wish to reach the light of day.

"Well," he shifted, pressing his fingers against the smooth metal of your cheekplates -- sometimes, he found himself wondering what it would feel like to touch you, without restraint, without fear, without the risk of being ridiculed. (The most embarrassing part about his pathetic little fantasy was whenever soemone else (usually Minimus or Megatron) caught him in the midst of sighing almost longingly at your retreating back. You never stayed around for much longer than you had to. Your own sense of duty was the bane of his existence.) He supposed that your near-admittance to envying his past lovers (he'd noticed, no matter how quickly you'd stopped yourself) had unwound something inside of him that he'd taken care to keep hidden (for so long) in the first place. "How about I give you a _sneak peek_?"

"Captain -- ?" The hesitation in your voice clued him in -- you _still_ weren't certain of yourself, of whether this was the right thing to do. But damnit -- he was _sick_ of worrying about that. He was tired of always doing the _right thing_.

For once, he just wanted to do whatever he so pleased, without sparing any thought to _propriety_ or _duty_ or _Captain-ly responsibility_.

"Rodimus."

You blinked.

"Call me Rodimus."

"Rodimus," your tone shifted, glossa feeling heavy in your mouth as he ran his fingers down along your cheekplates, reaching around to cup the back of your helm. His name on your glossa felt unnatural -- almost _wrong_. You felt the tell-tale prick of a heavy conscience.

 _Oh, Primus_. You could _see_ his intentions in his optics. If you didn't stop him, he would make a fool of himself. He would trust you, and invite you into his spark, without knowing that every time you turned your back on him, it was to report to someone else.

He would think you had used him, and he would feel betrayed. And if you allowed this, you would be _letting_ yourself use him. And you should have taken advantage; Soundwave had always cautioned you against weakness, but he had also advised you to take advantage of the _enemy's_ weakness, especially if it provided a verifiable advantage. (And being publically marked as the Captain's lover? Oh, _advantages abound_ , your choice of designation.) But you found that, no matter how your spark tugged you towards him, just as your warped sense of duty did, you could not will yourself to cross that line. It was too much. Too far. He didn't just want meaningless interface -- no, he wanted _more_. He wanted what you _could not_ , in good conscience, give to him.

(Or _should_.)

"You're making a mistake," you tried to warn him, but when he looked at you like that, you could barely manage a whisper.

He pulled you in closer, as gently as possible, fingers circling your wrist.

" _No_. If I let you go -- if I let go of the only chance I'll ever have with you, _then_ I would be making a mistake. And this wouldn't be like every other mistake I've ever made -- and I've made _plenty_ , your choice of designation. I know that. We _both_ know that. I'm not perfect -- I'm not the best Captain around, and I'm not even a competent Autobot. I let too many things spiral out of control, and I always wind up losing too many of my friends _because_ of that." He trailed his fingers along the metal plating of your arm, exploring the contours and dips in your armor.

"But _this_? This would be one mistake I would _never_ be able to live with."

You blinked, surprised to find that your cheeks were wet with coolant (again).

"I know I can never replace Drift in your spark. I know that I'm not _good enough_ for you -- mostly because you've never screwed up like I have, you've never lost so much to your own stupidity, and I have no doubt that if the Matrix chose you, you would at least know better than to make the same mistakes _I_ have. I mean, you'd probably have found some way to save everyone else without breaking the damn thing, _for starters_." (At this, he sighed, and you forced yourself not to laugh. He seemed genuinely disturbed by this event, and the last thing you wanted him to think was that you didn't take his losses seriously.) "But, please, just for one night, just while we _can_ , until the last breath I take, or you take, or _both of us_ take, until we either see this journey through to fruition or get killed along the way -- can't we just _pretend_ that we're perfect for each other?"

You knew without asking that this was something he would never _dare_ repeat in the presence of Rung. This was something he had _never_ been brave enough to say aloud -- not to _anyone_. And you realized, then and there, that he wasn't in love with Drift, or even Minimus. _No_. He had, all this time, been watching _you_ , kept _you_ close to him when there was death in the air, and had defended _you_ from all claims of treachery (from anyone who dared to speak them), because _you_ , in all your silence and elusion, had somehow managed to catch his attention in a way that _no one else_ had for a long time.

"How can you ask me to do that?"

His optics flashed, and you observed the pain for just a fleeting second before it was gone.

Replaced by a sudden distance that you were not unfamiliar with -- from your fellow crewmates. But not from _him_. The Captain had always been much friendlier, much more _open_ , with you.

This was what it meant to lose him. If even for just a _moment_.

And it hurt like you had never imagined it could.

He heaved a long, weary sigh, but before he could stand up, and perhaps dismiss you, pretend it was all a cleverly planned joke, you caught hold of his servo. "Hold _on_ , Captain! I swear -- you have a problem with exercising patience! You _never_ let me finish!"

Rodimus almost had the decency to look embarrassed, but settled for confusion, instead.

"What?"

" ** _Don't be stupid_**! I wasn't saying that I didn't feel the same way. I mean, in a very real, _not_ - _pretend_ sort of way. I don't want to pretend _anything_ , because I don't want you thinking that the way I feel about you is _fake_!" You brought your ped down, hard, anger flaring through your optics.

(He didn't care to admit that the fierce look was an appealing one for you.)

(Especially with those optics of yours. It reminded him of planet Earth's sun.)

(He had never found it such a lovely sight until he saw it echoed through your optics.)

"So," he couldn't help it -- he grinned. It was a quirky, playful gesture, and you felt the heat from your energon circuits sweeping up into your face. You were suddenly feeling lightheaded. Had you just confessed such a personal thought to your own _Captain_? What in the _Pits_ was _wrong_ with you? You were expected to _betray_ this mech sooner or later -- how _could_ you when you had basically just given him your spark to hold? "You're saying that you _definitely_ feel the same?"

"Yes."

It was too late to back out. You could see that clearly, now.

Something in his expression shifted, and he knelt in closer, one servo grasping your shoulder while the other held your face still. Then, without warning, his lips were pressed against yours. This was not the first time you had been kissed, but unlike every other time it'd happened, you couldn't have been _happier_ about it.

It was like injecting Syk into your circuits instead of energon -- your spark's pulsating wavelength was beginning to speed up, and the humming grew so loud you could hear it in your own audial receptors.

You did the only thing you could think of -- you placed your servo over his and closed your optics to shut out the blinding light that flickered in your processor when his EM field came crashing over yours.

His own joy rang louder than the rest of his thoughts -- though you could feel traces of uncertainty, fear, and -- and -- _guilt_? You didn't have enough time to process any of it before the bliss was washing over it all.

And just like that, he was pulling away, blue optics aglow in the dim lighting of his habsuite.

" _I'll_ say it, then, since it looks like you're otherwise _terrified_ of admitting it -- "

"Don't say it unless you mean it." You were very serious about this. Uncompromising.

He laughed, an easy, light sound that floated through the large space like a refreshing breeze.

"Well, I guess that means I've got no other choice, now, _huh_?" He pressed a fleeting kiss to the corner of your lips. "I," another to the smooth metal of your forehelm, "love," one to the back of your left servo, "you." The last one was placed against the faded badge over your spark. This one lingered a moment longer, leaving a pleasant tingling in its wake.

You couldn't help it -- you smiled maybe your first real smile since you'd last seen Soundwave.

It was a sight for sore optics, he admitted to himself, and said as much aloud, because no one else was around to hear it. (Not that he would bother trying to hide it, anyways -- he would _gladly_ shout through all the hallways of the _Lost Light_ that you returned his feelings.)

But just to be sure...

You placed both servos on his shoulders, pulling him down to your size. He did as you wordlessly requested, puzzled, but compliant, nonetheless. That being done, you leaned in, cupping both servos around his left audial receptor, and pressed a small kiss to the corner of the delicate appendage. " _I love you, too_ ," you whispered.

(Hoping Soundwave, or Ravage, couldn't hear it.)

He took it as a playful gesture, and allowed himself to laugh, surprised to hear you join in with your own laughter. He had _never_ heard you laugh before -- not even _once_. You were usually so serious that people referred to you as a carbon copy of Minimus, but you had such a pretty smile and your laugh was so enchanting...

He couldn't help feeling _glad_ that you shared these private moments only with him.

"Come here, _you_!" He hoisted you up into his arms and spun you around, your arms outstretched as your squeak of surprise turned into a laugh of merriment, expressing your own high spirits. "I am _so glad_ I decided to do this! I was super worried about this becoming some kind of one-night-stand!"

Your expression twisted in disdain, and then you burst into giggles.

"Oh, Rodimus, I would _never_ hurt you like that. I just couldn't _bear_ it." You pressed your lips against his once more, and then, he sat down with a _suddenness_ that made you squeal, before pressing his lips everywhere that he could.

You disolved into a fit of giggles, trying to push his face away, and failing miserably.

"Don't worry, affectionate nickname for designation of your choice. I won't _ever_ hurt you, either. And if you ever need my help, I'm only _one pinge away_." He grinned, a playful light in his optics. "Though if you're ever just feeling _lonely_..."

You smacked your servo against his shoulder. "Don't act so _perverse_ or you'll force me to regret this."

"Got it, doll face."

"That's _Professor_ Doll Face to you, Captain Hot Rod."

(Despite worrying that he would hate your usage of that old name, he didn't seem to mind.)

(In fact...)

"That's right! Cause I've got the _hots_ for you, _Professor_."

 

Of course, it didn't take long for everyone to figure out that the only remaining archivist was no longer available for courtship (which really only upset one mech: Swerve) -- especially considering the fact that their lovely, industrious Captain announced it to everyone at _Swerve's own bar_ after having had too much to drink, despite the fact that it was _supposed_ to be a secret.

And judging by the burn of indignation in your optics as you scolded him for the public embarrassment, everyone knew it to be true without a doubt. Especially when he went on to soothe you with, " _Professor Doll Face_."

You could only hope that the end result of your betrayal would be worth the self-hatred and pity (for Rodimus, of course -- you were hardly deserving of any) that you endured every cycle before falling into recharge in his arms.


	3. Molten Inside || Transformers: Prime || Shockwave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sexual frustration: the eternal show-stopper.
> 
> You would know a thing or two about that, wouldn't you? And, apparently, so would Mr. Logic over there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so maybe this isn't as cute as my other works, but I will probably be uploading many other NSFW works here. If ya'all don't mind. (Of course you don't. You're all sinners.)
> 
> There isn't a whole lot of loving here. Just, uh, outlets for certain physical activities.
> 
> Of course, this isn't really violent sex, but not exactly "vanilla", either. Decepticons: can't live with them, can't live without them.
> 
> If seeing this makes anyone realize that they wanna request something less than innocent, go ahead. lol.
> 
> And, Jacob, don't you worry. I've added your request to my prompt list. Once I'm done with editing the original works I already have done, I'll start working on my prompts, including yours. Gosh, I just hope you can wait that long. :( I promise you, the wait will be worth it.

"Rippling, rippling, rippling, like a flapping overlapping of soft flames, soft as feathers, running to points of brilliance, exquisite, exquisite and melting her all molten inside."

\- D. H. Lawrence

 _You did not hate Shockwave_. You needed to make that clear before anyone could make any mistaken assumptions. You _despised_ him -- _loathed_ the cyclops with all of your being. You had never thought you could hate _anyone_ as much as you did the Decepticon Head of Science. Not even _Starscream_ , or that incorrigible Knock Out, could ever anger you just by entering a room. Not like Shockwave could.

And yet, you found that you were unable to deny his offer.

You would never have pegged the behemoth for being an overly sexual being, or even remotely _physical_ , but, much to your surprise (and you hated him _even more_ for surprising you -- you had always prided yourself on being an “expert of people”), Shockwave had a particularly healthy interface-drive. Like any other mech (trust you on that - Knock Out had made the offer quite _subtly_ after losing his former partner to the treacherous spider (well, it was more like he propositioned you, and you were so busy _laughing_ that you hadn’t seen the glower he’d given you as he stated, “Never mind”)), Shockwave had urges - urges that had, so far, remained _unfulfilled_.

How you had found this out was all purely coincidental. You had been ordered by your self-proclaimed master and leader, _Lord Megatron_ , to aid the newly-arrived Shockwave in his newly-rebuilt laboratory. Apparently, though you had been sufficient as a field medic with your past training, you served as a far better scientist. _Therein lied the problem_.

You initially had no qualms about this re-assignation. In fact, you had been stoked. _Finally_! As you saw it, this was your chance to prove your worth where your passions were most invested. You promised not to disappoint your master (whom claimed, in a fit of amusement upon discovering that you were overjoyed with the turn of events, as well as delight to be receiving his favored scientist back from a rumored certain death, that he would be holding you to your word), and had moved your equipment from the medibay to the laboratory _that very day_.

Knock Out was (surprisingly) sad to see you go. He made you promise to drop by and buff him whenever you got the chance (which wasn’t often – unlike _some_ , you were actually _busy_ ), as you were quite the _natural_ with your deft fingers and careful optics, and then he warned you about the scientist you would now be working alongside.

You didn't take his warning seriously, since, after all, being who he was, Knock Out tended to be intimidated by just about anybody. _First_ _mistake_.

You had initially found yourself strangely intrigued, _fascinated_ , even, by your new partner. The cyclops never said a word out of line, standing by his logic and reason, under _all_ circumstances (the very same antics that annoyed Commander Starscream tended to _amuse_ you), but then, as time began to pass, he began to pay _far_ too much attention to _you_ , in turn. At first, it was understandable – he was merely helping you correct whatever _miniscule_ mistake you made, which you appreciated, and could accept as necessary - attention to detail was, after all, a skill to be coveted.

But then, the amount of attention he paid to you began to escalate, _quickly_ , from the mere necessary to the mundane and _un_ necessary (in your professional opinion, because your _personal_ one was less _appropriate_ to voice in terms of a complaint), and you found yourself growing increasingly annoyed by the very behemoth's _presence_ , because now you felt that you had to work harder than ever just to avoid being criticized (for a period of longer than five kliks). And this was the most _obnoxious_ undertaking you had ever tackled.

Earning his seal of approval was damn near impossible.

You were not a sparkling – you were adamant that this treatment was not only unjust, but also ridiculous. You were _more than capable_ of performing your duties – so why did he seem to think differently?

At times, you found yourself so stressed out, so beyond your normal sphere of "creepy tranquility" (as the Eradicons so endearingly coined it), that you would flee to the medibay just to maintain your processor intact (especially since Shockwave appeared to _enjoy_ pushing your buttons – which was probably not true, especially considering who he was, but you couldn’t _help_ the way you felt; unlike _some_ , you weren’t afraid of feeling things). You had allowed him to poke holes into your sense of reasoning, into your investigative processes, into the very methodology you worked with, but you would _not_ allow him to witness your emotional instability. You knew it would be nigh-impossible for you to deal with any of his claims that you were being unreasonable, “illogical”. You _knew_ how stupid you were being, so he could _get fragged_! Like you,  your choice of designation, a veteran Pretender, a self-taught medic, a well-versed scientist, needed to be told your emotions were _illogical_!

You knew it was foolish and senseless to feel anything other than _due respect_ for your superiors, but it was frustrating, **_infuriating_** , to know that he would never approve of _anything_ you did. Knock Out was at a loss of what to do, or say, to bring you back around, but your Commanding Officer, who had taken to spending _considerably_ more time around the brilliantly-painted CMO (which was cause for question – you suspected foul play), never had to do much besides make a snarky comment in regard to said infuriating scientist. You supposed your commander's spitefulness towards the head scientist was _really_ what helped you come to terms with your own resentment of the mech you worked alongside. When you found yourself agreeing with most of Starscream's treacherous commentary? _That_ was a bad sign.

So, you tried harder to make sure your work was as efficient as possible, to stay out of Shockwave's way, to avoid him unless absolutely necessary. But he seemed not to catch on. Either that, or he truly _did not care_. He continued on with his business (and with moderating _yours_ ) as usual, though Knock Out (graciously, with amusement gleaming in those red optics of his) brought it to your attention that the mech was never far behind wherever you happened to be, yourself, and that he tended to outright _watch_ you more than he bothered with anyone else aboard the _Nemesis_. (Or ever really had done, during his lengthy career as a Decepticon.)

And then he began to stare down the other Eradicons (successfully scaring the living slag out of them), the Commander, even _Knock Out_ , himself, whenever they came "too close" to you. (Of course, no one dared to inform him that you didn’t need his protection – you were creepy enough to deter any _unwanted advances_ , on your own.)

This could really _only_ culminate in your recent confrontation; one that had been long overdue. Lord Megatron was out on the fields, battling Optimus Prime, and Starscream demanded to know if there was anything that could be done to aide him in “staying intact”, as several of the officers had been wounded in battle, and therefore, could not provide backup, and as such, Megatron would likely be requiring medical assistance (and possibly _more_ backup, what with the _impressive_ array of weaponry the Autobots now possessed). You suggested they send you out, as you had, to the _Nemesis_ ’ common knowledge, served as a field medic for the majority of your Decepticon career. The Commander, stupid as he was, asked if your “bondmate” would mind.

Puzzled, you asked what he meant, which surprised the other officers and soldiers gathered in the Command Hub (as they had apparently _really_ assumed you had been bonded). Starscream, making sure to give himself a wide berth of space from you, answered what was on everyone's mind.

"Shockwave."

That _alone_ was enough to send you into a fit of rage. You growled (an animalistic sound that frightened them all, _the_ _fools_ ), anger clearly blazing in your optics as the film over them snapped in your grasp when you attempted to pull it off in your frustration. Your golden optics, never having been repaired after the _incident_ on Cybertron, filled with the furious glow of your murderous intent, were enough to send several Eradicons fleeing from the Command Hub.

Starscream himself shrunk back, but all you managed to utter before realizing _he_ was watching, was, "Listen here, _you_ _spineless pile of scrap metal --_ "

Then, you spotted him. And you bowed your helm after a long moment of (strained) silence, forcing yourself to recover your own temper. You managed to apologize, in a low, barely-decipherable mutter, before promptly leaving the room, fully planning to head to your habsuite, to hole up and pretend no one else existed, as you often did whenever you lost your temper (which wasn’t as often as it _should_ have been, all things considered).

(And which hadn't happened in _vorns_ , not until you’d met that slagging scientist.)

(You had even considered _going rogue_ , risking the List, for the opportunity to tear out the mech's spark, yourself.)

(And possibly force-feeding it to him.)

(If you could ever find that slagging mouth of his.)

(If he _had_ one.)

Then, _he_ had caught up, and now here you were, in this present _predicament_.

All because of that _stupid little argument_. (One not worth risking _the Lis_ t for, no matter what your anger commanded.)

Knowing how he preferred to keep his distance, how _logical_ and _unfeeling_ of a mech he was, it was a surprise to you when the scientist propositioned you, so plainly, without shame. He suggested a “hypothesis” for your “mutual frustrations” with each other. (You were surprised to learn that _you_ had gotten under _his_ seams, somehow, as well.)

You were attracted to him, and he to you. Fiercely. _Pathetically_ , even. As unreasonably as possible. You should have suspected that this _would_ nag at a practical 'con like Shockwave, but you were _not_ prepared for what came out of his mouth, next.

He offered you a “mutual physical relationship”, without the _attachment of emotions_ , the silly and illogical things. (You found yourself surprisingly stung by that.)

(But didn’t wish to examine that sentiment any further.)

And yet, no matter how you felt about it, you could not refuse his offer.

He hypothesized that it would rid the two of you of your “sexual frustrations”, and would allow you to resume your work as efficiently as possible without the anger and intolerance that had been clouding your judgment the past few metacyles.

Though you now knew _his_ reasoning for the coupling, you couldn't help not caring. The way he had been hovering, lately, _had_ been stirring up some kind of unfamiliar sentiment in you, had made you hyperaware of his every lingering glance, had made you come to both loathe and long for his presence. It was stupid, and silly, and _intoxicating_.

He gazed down at you so evenly, _so_ _seriously_ , and his large frame towered over yours, the heat of his metal warming your own at such a close proximity. He stood so close to you that you had to crane your neck to look into his single optic. And the way his fingers twitched -- you knew he was restraining himself from taking you _right there_ , in the hallway mere _kliks_ away from the optics of any wandering bystander.

Your anger, the irrationality of it all, must have aroused him something fierce, you realized. Perhaps he actually found himself attracted to everything that was “illogical” in you? The thought was something worth a study. So, because _why not_ , you accepted his offer.

(Also because the look he was giving you, and the way his EM field felt wrapped around yours, was just plain _delicious_.)

You doubted the mech even knew how a pressurized spike worked, nonetheless how to _use_ it. But, it was worth a go. If he was terrible, then you would delight in _teaching_ him how to perfect his technique. (After all, as a _scientist_ , it was your _duty_ to see this project through to the end, wasn't it?) And if he was well-learned, you were in for a great time, _anyways_.

Either way, it was a win-win situation for you.

You could hear the purr in your own voice, something you had never known you could do, when you traced your fingers, very lightly, _teasingly_ , along the metal of his chasis. You accepted. And he did not waste any time in asking you to follow him back to his habsuite.

You followed, stabilizing servos trembling slightly, though you (somehow) managed to stand tall and _proud_ , near-strutting beside the behemoth, of whom spared you a single glance (and immediately regretted it); he caught the glimmer of anticipation (and _enthusiasm_ ) in your chipped golden optics, and had to force himself to look away. (Much to your own, sick satisfaction. It felt _wonderful_ to know that _Shockwave_ , of all mechs, couldn’t keep his optics (er, _optic_ ) off of you. You had always suspected that you may have been _quite the catch_ , and this **_definitely_** provided a boost to your ego.)

You were surprised when he asked about them (your optics). He inquired as to why you had not yet repaired them, and you knew you could just give him the same response you gave to everyone else who asked, could explain that there were no spare materials, that the procedure was lengthy (and you had no local optician to turn to, for that matter) – you could have given any number of _logical_ , _reasonable_ explanations; but, for whatever reason, you were feeling particularly defiant and _silly_ and _illogical_.

So, your response was stupid, and ridiculous, and made _no sense_. "I _like_ it." He didn’t give you a _verbal_ response, but, judging from the twitch of his fingers, your hypothesis rang as irrefutable truth: he was attracted to your absolute _disregard_ for “logic”.

And, so, _here you were_. You lay sprawled across the berth, a coy smile playing at your lip components. Shockwave loomed above you, analyzing your every curve and flickering biolight, your metal’s every curl and flex. You stretched out your lithe limbs, and noted, gleefully, that his optic closely observed the gesture, clearly interested.

"Well," you began, forcing yourself to swallow your giggle, your thin fingers tracing the edges and fuel lines of his berth (a most fascinating discovery, for an inanimate structure), "You’re not a voyeur, are you? I was expecting _very physical_ ‘participation’ on your part."

Your inquiry appeared to pull the mech out of whatever trance he had fallen into; his helm swiveled, single optic making direct contact with both of yours. You felt yourself tremble, not unnerved, but _intrigued_ , by the faceless contours.

You had always been a “strange femme” with a taste for the _eldritch_ , but a mech with _no visible face_? This was a new low, even for _you_.

He kneeled onto the berth beside you, maneuvering himself so that he could straddle your much smaller frame with his own.

And then, he studied you, contemplating, his helm hovering above yours. You attempted to control your rate of squirming (especially under the force of his intense scrutiny), but you couldn’t help it when your interface array began to warm up, at an _alarming_ speed, under the force of his steady gaze (the same one that _dragged_ along your frame, from your helm to the tips of your pedes, and back again).

"Shockwave, as _endearing_ as I find your undivided attention," you purred, fingertips trailing down along his broad shoulderpads, lower, _lower_ , ghosting along his firm arms, until your servos came to rest directly over his, "we don't have _all cycle_ before Lord Megatron calls us to attention for another task." Your optics flickered, lifting to meet his own.

A low rumble was his only reply before the head scientist decided it was time to take his liberties, seeing as how you had already proven _fearless_ with that endeavor, yourself. His fingers ghosted over every bit of metal they encountered, exploratory caresses, occasionally snagging on sensitive seams. His servos were much too large to reach under your delicate plating, to “play games” with your hypersensitive wiring, but you didn't raise your voice in complaint.

Instead, you brought yourself out of your own haze with a gentle self-reminder that the agreement was for a _mutual_ physical relationship. You felt it was _only fair_ to reciprocate some of the attention you were receiving. Your fingers easily slipped through the crevices and gaps in his armor, twisting wires and (gently) pinching nodes as you went, with the practiced ease only a medic could boast. The larger mech gave a muffled groan in response, and you were startled to realize it was not a dream or particle of your imagination – you had _really_ pulled coaxed forth such an unrestrained reaction, from _Shockwave_ , with little more than your _touch_.

(Had he been waiting for this _much longer_ than you could ever have imagined?)

"My commander is eager, isn't he?" your voice was soft, digits teasing a little cluster of wires that crisscrossed over his abdomen. Arching into your touches (again, to your own surprise), Shockwave's own fingers found the sensitive wiring peeking out from one of the many gaps near your inner thighs, mere _kliks_ from your closed array cover. This time, it was _your_ turn to enthusiastically voice your appreciation.

And you did just that; you vocalized a longing mewl, your panel unfastening to make way for his touch, to offer to him a quickly-lubricating valve and a half-pressurized spike. One you doubted you would be making use of.

Bypassing the spike (as expected), one of his large digits slowly, _slowly_ , sunk past the nodes lining the entrance of your valve. It stung, admittedly, even despite the light lubrication, and you tried (and failed) to muffle a whimper.

He paused, having heard you, and his single optic met yours; he (correctly) gauged that you were not in distress, only mild discomfort (that he calculated was to be expected). He decided to press on.

His digit began to drag back and forth between the (sensitive) nodes, slipping in and out of your tight and warm valve. Your own servos gradually migrated their way up (and over) his chasis, coming to rest along his shoulderplates. You exhaled, heavily, shakily, as your valve began to (slowly) supply more lubricant, the burning gradually dissolving, as well – giving way to a muted pleasure.

Noting the change, Shockwave slipped in another finger beside the first one, working on the (hopefully rewarding) task of stretching your valve with slow, scissoring motions. Pushing and pulling, violent and unapologetic, twisting both digits roughly, _without warning_ ; his fingertips scratching, _pulling_ , against the nodes in your valve.

Your voice was louder this time, sharpened fingers _clawing_ at his plating. Purple paint chipped under your touch, flaking off onto the berth, but neither of you seemed to notice. Not long after this, Shockwave slipped in _another_ finger, and you arched with pleasure. Your own fingers clutched, now, at his shoulders, pulling the scientist closer to your heaving, trembling frame.

Your hips raised, now, bucking into his ministrations, as you keened aloud.

Apparently satisfied with his preparations, Shockwave's panel opened with a _click_. Your optics lowered, although the hazy film of lust that poured out through your EM field in waves was impairing your senses. His spike, fully pressurized, extending towards you (almost _proudly_ ), and you, to your own embarrassment, felt yourself begin to salivate at the mere sight of it.

It was admittedly large, full, layered in ridges, and you couldn't help feeling _excited_ by the prospect of having _that_ inside of you. Before Shockwave could do much more, however, you decided that you wanted to “investigate”, and allowed your curious fingers to map out the contours of the black metal, ghosting across the pulsing, purple biolights.

(You hadn’t expected him to look so _pretty_ down there, you mused.)

"Well, _this_ is certainly a nice surprise." You traced the energon lines, mapping it out over the surface of his _impressive_ spike, and felt a level of giddiness that you couldn't begin to explain to yourself, or to _anyone_ , when you heard him growling in what you could only assume was barely-restrained pleasure.

His optic followed your movements, as if hypnotized by them, before he decided that _enough was enough_. Shockwave forced your fingers away, bracing a single servo against the berth's surface before he began to sheathe himself into your eager valve.

You arched up against him, intakes harsh as you panted, trying to catch your breath (and failing – _miserably_ ). He was stretching you past your limits, as you had expected, but you couldn't help _relishing_ in the burn. You felt as your calipers clutched, struggling to _hold on_ , around his length, and you gasped out.

Eventually, his spike was seated _snugly_ inside of your stuffed valve. You cried out in a manner that would normally _embarrass_ you had you realized how _silly_ you sounded. (And had you been _coherent_ enough to _care_.)

The nodes in your valve were burning, sending flares of pleasure up through your systems (mingling with that delicious pain you so adored), and his optic drank in your expression of pure bliss, awaiting any tell-tale signs of discomfort. Deciding that there were none, he pulled out, slowly, slowly, (and she mewled like a domesticated beast), before **_slamming_** back into you, choosing to set a brutal pace.

You wailed, your servos scrambling over his plating, _frantically_ , eventually finding their way to his shoulders – where they clutched _desperately_. Your grip painted welts into his plating, but he paid them no mind, so neither did you.

In fact, Shockwave appeared to derive an odd sort of _pleasure_ from this, and, in return, he grasped at your firm aft, pulling you flush against him in order to experience you at a different angle (with a higher level of control over his own movements – Shockwave did so love to control the environment, at all times). You sobbed in near-blinding delight as your ceiling nodes were _pounded_ by his spike, and your cooling fans roared with the effort to keep your systems at a stable temperate, your optics sparking in response to the system-wide _abuse_ (and _pleasure_ ).

Back bowed at a near _painful_ angle, you felt the powerful rippling of an approaching overload. You gasped, chanting pleas for more, more, _more Primus slaggit!_ before a white, blinding flash of light (and numbing sensation) washed over you, coating your EM field in rapture.

Overload.

You _screamed_ out his designation, your valve gripping his spike ( _achingly_ ). All the while, Shockwave continued his ministrations without any _hint_ of slowing down or loosening up, pounding into your valve with a renewed fervor. You keened, without restraint of volume, no longer _caring_ about the possible humiliation of being overheard.

(Which was a _certainty_ , considering your volume.)

After a few more punishing thrusts, Shockwave stilled, his optic offlining for a klik or two as the sensation of overload washed over his own EM field, crashing into yours, as well, and forcing you to overload a _second_ time. His spike released a cool rush of transfluids into your valve, and you whimpered, squirming as the fluids began to _leak_ out of your valve and stain the berth beneath them. (Pink and blue. _Ah_. The ever-revealing color scheme of the sinful.)

He groaned, his own cooling fans operating at _top speed_ to cool him down, before extracting himself from your spent valve. His spike retracted behind his panel, and the steam being exuded from both of your frames began to settle down into a solid wall around you.

You were still trying to catch your breath when Shockwave peered down at you with that unnerving, single optic. "Were the results satisfactory?"

"Well, I am _definitely_ looking forward to the next time, if that’s what you mean.”


	4. Black and White || Transformers: Prime || Dreadwing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You are unable to escape the haunting truth that your spark feels nothing, no matter the circumstance, for anyone or anything. You are empty, a lifeless husk. Dreadwing is similarly lost in the disgrace of his liege lord. Confused, ashamed. Betrayed. Will you find solace together, or perish alone? Can you find a purpose in each other, or will your past choices fail you both?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has got to be, hands-down, one of the cutest, saddest, most wonderful pieces I've written, in a long, long time.
> 
> Really, the pieces I write nowadays are equally sad, but back in the time I wrote this, the only one that compared was a Soundwave piece (one I'll also be posting here -- aren't ya'all lucky?). I actually cried while re-reading this. It's so emotional.
> 
> (And also, really different from what I'm used to. I've never once written for someone who didn't feel. It's very new, and very interesting. The theories as to why this is are endless. Shadowplay is a possibility, but also, it could just be because something went wrong while she was being constructed. Who knows? If you had been shadowplayed, it's not like you would remember ever being different. That's the whole point: change a viewpoint by changing everything else. And vice versa.)
> 
> Anyways, enjoy! And have a box of tissues at the ready. (Hopefully. If you don't cry, I didn't do a good enough job.)

"We hunger in earnest for that which we cannot consume."

Nenia Campbell, _Black Beast_

If there was ever one thing you could be absolutely certain of, without a doubt, it was that you were uncertain of all but the fact that you lived. You did not know _why_ you lived, why you had not been left for scrapmetal when Vivace had the chance to save herself, why you still continued to trudge on through this shallow and empty, waste of an existence.

Why you bothered, anymore.

Why bother pretending to care, after all, for a cause whose origins you disagree with?

Why bother to fight for the freedom of a long-dead home?

Why bother to sacrifice your wellbeing, time and again, the very one Vivace lost her own spark trying to protect, for something you weren't even sure you believed in?

Why did you continue on without Vivace? Vivace had been your reason, and your rhyme, and the only truth you ever needed to know. _Vivace_ had been your cause, the "why" and the "how" and the "what." The "who."

Vivace had always believed in Optimus Prime, vivaciously, relentlessly, without doubt or question. The Autobot - that was _Vivace's_ cause, not yours.

It was Vivace's reason for living, her fighting spirit, her agenda and her purpose.

But you? You weren't so sure it was really _yours_.

Everything passed by like a blur. You had felt a great wrenching pain, as if your own spark had been extinguished, when you had watched the blue fade away into grey, cold grey, unseeing, unfeeling, dead. Vivace had offlined forever, joined with the Well of Allsparks, and _you_ had lived.

So why did you feel as if _you_ had been the one to die?

You felt so empty, so hopeless, so stupid and clumsy and unneeded, _a nuisance_.

Vivace had always been the brighter shining star, the sharpness and agility and wit that the Autobot cause needed. You were just a mute glow, a _whimper_ , in comparison.

You hadn't shed tears. No, the coolant in your optics were all dried up.

Not once in your long and miserable life had you ever cried.

For no one. For nothing. Because there had been no point, you always reasoned.

No use in crying over spilt energon.

It was a waste of time, of effort, of energy.

But watching Vivace die, watching her smile one last time in that unrelenting attempt to cheer you up, as if she wasn't dying, was just sitting across from you in the barracks, playing a game of strategy, challenging you to _live_ , to make it, to be someone -

That was the closest you had ever come to feeling.

Ever come to _crying_.

All your life, you had been told what was the right way, what was the _noble_ way, what was the thing you should do, what you should say, how honored you should be to take part in such a cherished cause, how you should feel about the Autobot leader, Optimus Prime, the respect you should hold dear for the other officers, the undying trust and loyalty you should always practice with your teammates and fellow Autobots.

And you tried. You had never tried harder with anything else in your life. Not your studies, not your work, not with keeping your ailing sire online for as long as possible (so that you wouldn't be left alone in a war you didn't understand). Oh, you _tried_. Tried as hard as you could.

And you had nearly given up. But then, _Vivace_.

You didn't have to force a smile, didn't have to fake a laugh, or scramble to conjure up reassuring words and heartfelt compliments (the way _everyone else_ around you could, so effortlessly). You didn't have to recount stories to feel like you belonged.

You didn't even have to _speak_. Because Vivace understood.

Vivace had been assigned to you as your partner for the purpose of raiding a Decepticon fortress and freeing prisoners of war. (Among them a few designations that were infamous among the Autobots, but none that you cared to remember. Who _cared_ about them? _Who gave a scrap_? Vivace was dead, and there was not a single honor given for such a grand warrior and firm believer of their cause. "Just another casualty of war," "just another body.")

You hadn't said a single word, didn't protest the assignment, accepted it as any good Autobot should, and waited to be paired up with your mystery partner (whom you didn't care much for - you just wanted to get this over with, just wanted to drink away all coherency in the barracks, wanted to forget that you didn't matter, that you were going to inevitably die for something you had never understood or believed in).

Vivace had the most stunning pair of blue optics, you recalled. Like the clearest energon, free of impurities. Injected straight from the source by a frantic medic in an attempt to save a life.

So clear that she saw right through your act, the poor thing.

(And you meant _poor thing_ in reference to Vivace, not yourself. No one should ever have to put up with your own emptiness but you.)

It happened so quickly you almost froze.

Vivace was a magnificent creature. A whirl of blues and whites. Her finish was brilliant, her optics brilliant, her smile brilliant. You felt the wires and nodes in your chasis twisting, choking each other, tearing themselves apart.

You had no idea what to do.

So, you tried to smile, like you’d been shown and taught.

But Vivace saw right through it.

"You look as enthusiastic about this _partnership_ as _I_ did when I first heard about it," the other femme had said, with a bright grin, one that forgave you for it, that said it was okay not to be happy, to feel annoyed, upset, angry, confused, infuriated -

Or to feel _none_ of that.

"Pardon?" you had sputtered, and Vivace had wrapped her arm, larger in size than yours, around your shoulders, in a reassuring gesture you had noted the others were so quick to share without a second thought (not with you - _never_ with you).

"This is the start of a beautiful friendship. Or relationship," she had laughed, a boisterous sound, one that made your faceplates heat up, something automatic, without a thought, without consideration. It just happened. (That had never happened, before.) "Either way, it's the start of _something_ , ey, playful nickname for your designation of choice?"

You couldn't think of anything to say. (Too much information had been presented to you at once for an immediate reaction. Was she serious? On _either_ account? And a birthless designation usually presented a close relationship, did it not? _You had only just met her_! How could this person be so certain the two of you would even be able to _tolerate_ each other, in the long run?)

So, you tried to smile, again.

"You should try smiling a little more naturally, your choice of designation." A gracious comment, one most would take as offense, but for the first time in your life, you understood someone. You knew, without asking, what Vivace meant by that.

_Don't force the gesture. It doesn’t mean anything unless it comes from the spark._

You didn't have to pretend. Didn't have to force it.

Not with Vivace. And that was how it had begun.

You had felt so alive, so willing to fight, for the first five vorns and for hundreds more, if need be. You had never felt so strong, so observant, so _clever_ , as you had by Vivace's side.

You had a purpose. Finally, _at long last_ , you had a purpose.

Vivace. Vivace of Kaon. Vivace who had once been a warden, who had once been considered for the pits (where the infamous Megatronous had risen up out of the ashes of Kaon's shame), who had never lain with a mech (or another _femme_ ) because she devoted too much of herself to the cause, who felt no desire other than to make the Prime proud, to make his dreams a reality.

Vivace who had once been a Decepticon warrior, who had once fought alongside Megatronous (er, Megatron) himself. Vivace who was ten feet taller than most femmes you knew; taller than most _mechs_ , too.

Vivace, your partner.

Vivace who spoke of dreams that sparked a similar desire in you, who made the energon flow in your previously lifeless husk, who made you feel like you could do something, that you _would_ do anything, _anything_ , to make her dreams a reality.

Vivace, who gave you a purpose.

You lived to darken the skies so that Vivace might shine as brightly as you knew her spark did. As brightly as she did when the two of you whispered in private, every-time Vivace risked a wink in your direction while being scolded by your commanding officers (for forgoing protocol - how could _anyone_ blame Vivace for living so brightly, so free?), who never failed to stay by your side during a battle, annihilating anyone who came too close to you (and you gladly, _feverishly_ , returning the favor), who would risk a laugh to let you know that _all is well, don't be afraid, death will never separate us, not now, not ever_ when the odds were looking grim, when you were captured or imprisoned or even interrogated for information.

Vivace, who was the bravery, the honor, the nobility, the camaraderie, _the_ _greatness_ , that everyone claimed of the Autobot cause. Vivace, who _was_ your cause.

And it all ended with not a bang, but a whimper.

The squadron had been surrounded by enemy troops, and Vivace had vowed, alongside the others, to fight to certain death. You swore to lay your life on the line for the cause (Vivace), for the right of all sentient beings (Vivace), and for the honor of the Prime (whom you didn't know and didn't care to know because Vivace was the only force you needed).

But Vivace had taken a shot meant for you. A blow to the chasis. Too much energon, too much mech fluid, not a single medic in sight that wasn't wearing the enemy brand.

You begged her to stay, you begged them to help, but it was a fruitless struggle.

Vivace smiled, told you that she was proud of what you had become (??), and told you never to lose faith. Then, the blue faded away to dust. And you didn't shed a single tear of coolant, didn't scream, didn't dare open your mouth for fear that your own life force would come pouring out.

You just watched. And continued to watch when there was nothing left to see but the husk of an old friend, an old _partner_ , a dream shattered, a purpose forgotten.

You lost your way.

You just continued to watch. And watch. And watch.

Like you had always done. Without a single protest.

 _Without a single word_.

In just a klik, you had lost everything that had ever mattered.

It was ten times worse than losing your sire, because you hadn't felt a single damn thing.

And you _should_ have.

Should have felt _something_. But you could only feel the same blank hopelessness, the same trudge, the same force of _nothingness_ you had felt at the very moment of your initial construction.

You knew the energon in your veins had not stopped circulating, knew your spark was still pulsating, but you couldn't feel it. You felt as dead as Vivace. And for a moment, you wished you _were_. Because you knew that your purpose was gone.

So, what more was there to live for?

The enemy didn't know what to do with you. Your will was like iron. You would not be budged from your position, continued staring even after the body had been thrown onto the scrap-pile of other bodies, continued to watch the pool of energon on the floor blankly, as if waiting for something.

You watched the floor; they watched _you_ , wary, wondering when you would react.

But you never did.

You never looked at anything else but that same spot where you had watched Vivace die.

They shuddered, afraid, unable to understand what they were seeing.

You had no will to fight back, but you would _not_ be moved.

You didn't bother flinching back when the enemy's medical officers removed your cannons and your blade, leaving you unarmed. Didn't blink when they lined you up for imprisonment.

Didn't recharge. Didn't say a word. Didn't think. Didn't feel.

They prodded you for information, but could get nothing in response. Not even acknowledgment of their presence. It was like your processor was far, far away.

You heard them whispering that you were glitched, your processor was fried. They didn't try to get answers from you, anymore. Didn't bother. One of the medics, “a beauty” (as Vivace would say) of red, said you were a dead Autobot walking.

You didn't have the heart to correct them, didn't want to say anything.

You just felt so tired, _so tired_.

They could see it in your optics. You looked ready to drop dead at any given moment.

One of the commanders (a tankformer, one you realized must’ve been in charge, here) ordered that you be brought to the “teleport chamber” so that he could make _some_ usage of “an already dead Autobot”.

But first, he had an interrogation to take care of. Other Autobots had been taken prisoner.

They knew who you were. Recognized your faceplates, asked where Vivace was, if she was okay, what had happened to the rest of the team. You didn't answer.

Never said a word, not even once they realized what had happened and grew enraged, infuriated, upset, downright _defiant_. The enemy couldn't handle the outburst of violence, hadn’t been expecting any sort of resistance _here_ , of all places.

So, the Autobots escaped, and took you with them, thinking you were just in shock, that it would wear off and that you would be able to “recover”. But you never did. You had died that day when Vivace's optics dimmed for the last time. The unnamed _commandant_ could tell, saw it in your optics, wondered where you derived the strength to actually _get up_ , much less escape with your life intact.

(You didn’t know the answer to his unspoken question. Thought it best not to linger.)

There was always someone worrying, someone _fretting_ , even when they should have just given up. You never said what happened, never spoke of it, never wanted to think about it.

And they were too damned kind-sparked, too sympathetic, too compassionate, _too polite_ , to ask. You wanted to hate them, wanted to mourn Vivace, wanted to hate the Decepticons, wanted to feel _something_ , but it just wasn't going to happen.

It was difficult to get up every morning and recharge every night.

This continued for vorns. Both sides _destroyed_ Cybertron, eventually, and scattered to the galaxies. Your new team never made it. All died in stasis lock on the way here. It was a crash landing – they never even got to online their optics.

Somehow, you survived. Somehow, you _always_ fucking survived.

Why? Why did it always have to be _you_? Why not someone more worthy, someone full of life, someone who cared? Why _you_?

They were all surprised. You could see it in their faceplates, even though they tried to hide it. You had survived the impossible, _once again_.

Optimus Prime said it was because you were stronger than anyone could ever know.

That the will to live was sometimes all it took. He didn't know you wanted to die.

He didn't need to know you had _never_ wanted to live.

Had never felt the will to do anything until Vivace, and afterwards, you never wanted to feel the will to do anything, again. It would hurt too much. This time, you had been lucky.

Next time, you knew you would break. You could feel it coming, in your every aching moment alive, in your every sparkbeat. You knew you were going to fall apart, come undone, crumble into pieces. But you couldn't will yourself to be afraid.

Couldn't will yourself to care.

You felt like a spirit, just fading away into nothing.

 

It happened so fast that you could hardly believe it.

You had just been sent out to scout for an artifact, one of the _Iacon relics_ , according to the others. It was very important that it be found, and you were the best one for the job, said Optimus Prime.

(Despite Arcee's insistence that you weren’t ready, yet, to send _her_ out, instead, or Bee, or _anyone_ , but not _you_.)

(You knew Arcee did it in good faith.)

(The thought would have warmed your spark had it not been that you felt you had none.)

The Prime regarded you with his cool blue optics.

"I believe it is time we allow your choice of designation to make her own decisions. It is the right of all sentient beings. I will not guide this cause without extending that same principle to every last femme and mech, every last being, I come across."

Arcee said nothing, then, because what could she say to that?

He was absolutely right.

(But that didn't mean she was any less worried.)

(For Primus' sake, you hadn't so much as said a _single word_ for all of the vorns that Arcee had known you after Vivace had passed, never done _anything_ without being prompted.)

(Well, at least it was better than before. In the beginning, you had to be _coerced_ into sustaining yourself.)

"Your choice of designation," she spoke, the picture of caution, of the need to protect the weak.

The weak.

The victim.

 _No_.

This was the last straw. Vivace had always told you, "Never let them treat you like you're a victim. Never _let_ yourself be the victim,  your choice of designation. _Never_. You are an Autobot, a warrior, an intelligent femme if I ever saw one myself. You are more than weak, more than small, more than faint-hearted. You are strong. Stronger than you know."

You were not weak. You would not be the victim. All this time, you had allowed herself to stop living, to damn near stop _existing_. You had allowed yourself to fall into a wedge of pity, with no way out but down. _No more_.

You were done. You were “the victim”, no more.

You would never again let another decide anything for you. Your life was your own gamble, your own game, your own war. Your life was your own to live or to throw away.

Your duty was to yourself, as it should always have been.

If you wanted to find a reason to life, you had to look for one instead of waiting around for it to come to you. You were done waiting. Waiting had done you no good.

Now, it was time to choose. Run, or hide.

Fight, or surrender.

Live, or survive.

You had a spark, a processor in perfect working condition, and it would be a shame not to put all that to good use. If the Autobot cause was not for you, then fine. You would find a cause, a purpose, on your own terms.

On no one else's.

"I'll go."

This surprised everyone around you. You could see it clearly in their faceplates.

"You will?" asked Bulkhead, eyes wide.

Bumblebee offered a good-natured objection. _You don't have to do this._

"I _do_ ," was all the strength you had to say, and then your optics found Optimus.

Saw the hope, the relief, the gladness, and knew it wasn't because of the artifact.

He said nothing. He only nodded his helm, knowing this was a moment that none but you could ever hope to understand. "Ratchet, open the ground bridge."

_Is she going alone!?_

The yellow scout was horrified.

Optimus met your optics.

"Yes. This is something she must do."

You moved, one ped at a time, towards the ground bridge, helm held high, optics bright, defiant, unwilling to ever lose anything again. You would not lie down and give up.

Not this time. Not even if Megatron, _himself_ , held his cannon to your helm.

You would go down with a fight, with a _bang_.

 _In glory_ , as Vivace had taught you, as so many others had _shown_ you.

Vivace had told you once, "Live for yourself, if for no one else."

And that's exactly what you planned to do.

But there was someone waiting for you.

You had known that someone would be there, suspected that the Decepticons would never allow an artifact to slip blindly through their fingers.

But you had never seen him before, never heard of him (or hadn't been paying attention), never before observed him in any manner. Vivace had said that you were stronger than you knew, but you were not as strong as _him_.

You need not ask. You _knew_ he was strong. Knew it from the look in his optics.

Those optics of amaranth. A captivating pair of red optics. _A study_ , as Vivace would have said.

Despite the strength in his posture, he was not lacking in grace.

Far from it. He stood tall, moved with a fluidity you could hardly begin to comprehend, and he was a stunning blur of steel blue, gunmetal grey, and lemon curd yellow. The biolights lining his body shimmered, a brighter shade of red than his optics, speaking of his alignment long before his optics had.

There was the glimmer of gold against the blue. _Decepticon_. The confirmation.

But it was marked with the code of the Elite Guard.

His features were elegant. His wings were of a magnificence you feared you would never grasp, pointed out and upward, like all the millennia-long visualizations of a _great air commander_. Horns curved up from his helm, a stunning sight framed by the same steel blue armor that protected the rest of his protoform. The shape of him, the _sight_ of him, the grandeur in the way he held himself, all spoke of something you did not understand, and never had.

Honor. Respect. Esteem.

(Magnificence. Beauty.)

But though it was intimidating, the sight of him in all his glory, you would not lose hope, _faith_ , in that you could do this. You _could_ do this. _I can do this_.

 

 _He_ , however, had not been expecting _you_.

It was not visible on his faceplates, he hoped. (One could never be too sure.)

He had been awaiting a great opponent to come and (try to) take the artifact from him.

The ground bridge had appeared, as expected, but you, _a stranger_ , had stepped out.

He had known someone would come, sooner or later, knew the Autobots could not _afford_ to lose another artifact. The outcome of the war might have very well hinged on the retrieval of such artifacts of power.

But he had never seen you before, never heard of you (or hadn't been there to do so, and had never known to ask), never before observed you in any manner.

He had once heard Skyquake say, "There is no beauty beyond that of Cybertron's skies."

But the skies of that world, and of any other, would never compare to _you_.

He took one look at your optics. Saw the fire burning inside them, such a fire that he was _startled_ , because it was the same look his departed brother always wore. One of determination, of the will to persevere, of the refusal to back down.

No matter the odd. Despite the fact that you were hopelessly outnumbered (did the Autobots disregard the Eradicons as a force of any kind?), hopelessly outgunned, and, quite possibly, no match for a Decepticon commanding officer.

You did not have the confidence of the yellow scout, nor of the blue femme, nor of the former Wrecker. But you glowed with your own pride, your own life.

And yet he could read you no further than that.

He couldn't pull his optics away from yours. It was like a force, _a_ _pull_ , one he couldn't resist, or begin to ignore. Your optics like the Earth's sky, like the clear mist rolling across the shores of a pristine beach, open and closed, both at once. Telling all, confiding nothing.

A study, as Skyquake would have (so articulately) put it.

Despite the pulchritude of your fine features, you were missing something.

Certainty. Understanding of the self. _A purpose_ , he surmised.

(And would be interested in discussing if you were not the enemy, and if it were not impolite to ask of a stranger to divulge such sensitive information.)

Though you lacked purpose, you _certainly_ did not lack in spirit.

Far from it. You stood proud, helm held high, optics unwavering, and you moved with a silence, a grace, he wasn't sure he fully grasped. _How can someone so puzzled present as such a puzzle, herself?_

You were a radiant beauty of coral red, silvery white, and navy blue.

There was the shadow of black etched into the red of your shoulder. _Autobot_.

The confirmation.

A warrior in training. Either that, or you had not been given the proper ceremony that placed you as a warrior instead of as a scout, amongst all the chaos on Cybertron.

(Or perhaps you were something else, altogether.)

(Of course, he could hardly ask. It wasn't in his place to do so.)

Your features spoke of a charm, a spell in your own right. The wheels lining along both of your arms, and above the heels of both of your pedes, were shined to an attractive hue of black. The care you took for them showed in how your spokes glimmered under the bright sunlight.

Your servos were flat at the palms, thin and almost wiry in the fingers. Poise screamed from the way you held your chin, not unflattering, but indeed _charming_ , as he had initially suspected. A humor glinted in your optics. (One he had yet to discover.)

The armor of your helm, red against white, with audio receptors tucked neatly beneath the edges, did nothing to hide or disturb the magnificence of your crown.

Because it was indeed how your armor was shaped.

The top of your helm formed into an elegant three-pointed crown of silver and red, biolights of blue running alongside the tips, the crown (of your helm), and down your arms to your palms, down your chasis to your stabilizing servos. To your small, noiseless, quick pedes.

You were the likeness of a Queen.

Of a Prime.

 _Solus Prime_ , he mused.

The shape of you, the _sight_ of you, the unfettered courage with which you held herself, all spoke of something Dreadwing was sure he had misunderstood his whole life, yet hoped he would soon regain.

Prowess. Wit. A Dream.

(The will to live, to fight, to hope.)

But though it was enchanting, the sight of you in all your regality, Dreadwing would not lose his own will to fight, to win this one for the sake of his Lord Megatron, for the sake of his fallen brethren, of his brother. He would win this. He would swallow back the fascination, remember his post, his purpose.

He could do this. _I will do this_.

 

And so, it seemed you had forgotten one little factor. You had never fought save to protect yourself, and perhaps a stray teammate, since the day you had watched Vivace die.

And though you felt the same fervor as before, there was something missing here and there. Practice. Rhyme. The reason was there, but not the purpose.

It felt as if you were fighting with heavy armor.

Too slow. Not smart enough to see this or that move coming.

But seconds ticked by, and you began to see, began to learn.

He was large, yes, but not clumsy. He matched you move for move.

The two of you were not so much battling for your respective causes (or lack thereof) as you were dancing around your opponent, trying to glean as much as possible, trying to understand each other without words.

And then, you got the better of him. He was distracted. One klik was all it took.

He went down, and _hard_. You took a hold of the artifact, slipped it right out of his grasp, the ghost of a touch that was gone as if it had never been there, and he felt it.

The trembling that began in his fingers and made his very spark beat so hard, so quickly, so _loudly_ , he was afraid, for a moment (and no more), that you could hear it.

Whatever had gotten a hold of him, suddenly?

You called for backup, as the Eradicons had begun to advance once their Commanding officer was down. You fought back admirably, keeping the waves from the artifact, and then you were handing it off to the blue femme.

Who was astonished by the sight before her. _That_ much he could tell.

 _Why?_ Why were your own teammates so surprised?

Should they not have known of your greatness before sending you into battle, alone?

"What," he heaved, trying desperately not to sound the fool. "What is your designation?"

You turned to look at him, as if you had known he was speaking to you, despite having your back to him (a show of arrogance he would have taken advantage of - well, had he not been struggling to _stand_ after the stun of your actions).

At long last, he had spoken, you realized.

And it was to _you_. Not to Arcee. Not to Bumblebee, or Bulkhead, or even _Optimus Prime_.

To _you_. His voice was strong, words articulate, coated with a strange lilt you could not place (but found you did not mind - and, in fact, you daresay felt it could have been one of many of his charms).

"Your choice of designation."

Befitting of such a femme, he noted.

 _Your choice of designation_.

He wondered what the title would feel like on his glossa, yet dared not try it aloud.

Not in front of everyone else.

You may have been alone, together, for just one klik, in a separate world from this blasted war and all its loss and pains, but now, the two of you were back where you belonged. Autobot and Decepticon.

Nothing more, nothing less.

"I am Dreadwing."

You grew still. "Dreadwing," you tested, not so afraid of speaking it aloud as he believed you ought to be. He admired you for this show of bravery, of shamelessness.

(Or perhaps he was the only one to take this encounter so-to-the-spark.)

It was oddly befitting of such a magnificent creature, the designation.

 _Dreadwing_.

"I look forward to when we may next meet, your choice of designation," he offered this single truth.

You had made for a worthy opponent. You learned quickly, and were just as fast on your pedes.

You were a femme _most_ would underestimate, he knew. But he had learned better than to ever commit such folly. You were not weak; you were no _victim_.

You were an Autobot warrior. No, an Autobot _artist_.

And he looked forward to creating art with you once more.

(And by that, he meant a rematch, one that would hopefully draw out to show the length of what you had both learned over the vorns.)

(One that would allow him to begin to meet the challenge posed by you.)

You had not fought, he believed, but begun a dance.

A dance he knew to be dangerous, ill-advised, but a dance he could not walk away from.

You enchanted him, you in all your mystery, and _he_ enchanted _you_ , him in all his glory.

And you would meet again. One way or another.

You both knew it. And instead of dreading it, you both looked forward to it.

He could see it clearly in your optics, the ones that were so _honest_ , and he knew they only mirrored the sentiment he was sure gleamed in his own.

"As do I, Dreadwing."

There was nothing more to be said. Your team retreated, artifact in hand.

And he retreated through a groundbridge with the rest of the (remaining) Eradicons, empty-handed. But though he had disappointed his one true Lord, he felt that he did not find the day was entirely lost. His spark, for once, was not empty. Not as it had been after losing Skyquake. It was beginning to fill, to warm.

To wonder.

To ask questions, to offer no answers but a fascination he could not dispel.

But how could he explain this to his Lord? This new source of curiosity ( _you_ ) in no way excused his failure. He knew that his Lord would say he should have eliminated such a threat ( _you_ ).

So, he did something he had never thought he would do, and sunk to the level of Starscream.

He omitted something from his Lord.

Omitted it gladly.

(Albeit a bit guiltily.)

So, that was that.

_ Your choice of designation _ _, hm?_

His interest was piqued.

 

The curiosity was all but killing them. You could see it all written clearly in their optics. How had you burst into a situation where you were surrounded and somehow _still_ handed them the relic? How had you managed to pry the relic from _Dreadwing_ , one of Megatron's best warriors, and most of all, how had you managed to impress Dreadwing in such a manner that he extended to you a courtesy he normally reserved for Optimus Prime?

They all wanted the story, but you found that you weren’t interested in telling it.

Something inside of you, something reminiscent of a sparkling's stubborn and possessive will, didn't want to give up the one moment of glory you held dear to yourself. Didn't want to give up what rightfully belonged to _you_.

You may have performed the deed of an Autobot, but your meeting with Dreadwing was of your own personal business. You really wished they would just understand this and leave you be. They were relentless.

Especially the young ones.

"So, did you kick his tailpipes _before_ or _after_ you got the relic? Or, wait, did you somehow trick him into giving it up? Did he hurt himself with one of his nifty explosives?"

Smokescreen.

"You do realize, of course, that Dreadwing isn't one to throw a match. Especially not on the behalf of a stranger. Not for _any_ reason, despite whatever handicap you all seem to believe she has."

Ratchet scolding (correcting) Smokescreen.

"So why did he lose, then? I mean, it's the first time she's fought in vorns, right? How could she possibly have beaten Dreadwing when even _Optimus_ can't?"

Smokescreen demanding answers. An explanation.

(One you couldn't articulate. One you could never begin to understand, yourself.)

How _had_ you beaten him? How?

You had not been prepared. Smokescreen was right.

Did he throw the match, after all?

 _No_. You remembered the light in his optics, the fire, the heat in the way he looked at you.

He would never throw a match. You both had that in common.

(Along with whatever exactly had sparked between you.)

(It couldn't have been your imagination... _could it_? He felt it, too... _hadn’t he_?)

So, how _had_ you been able to best him?

 

Only because he had been distracted momentarily.

 _That_ was the reason he had lost the relic. Dreadwing went over and over the details of the match, of the unexpected meeting between you.

He turned the details over in his processor until he thought he might lose himself in the memory of your fierce optics. Of your unbending will to live, to fight, to _win_.

He hadn't felt or seen such dedication since Skyquake had passed.

Soundwave was the very essence of dedication, but not of the kind he had seen in _you_.

It was not a dedication to the Prime, he realized. No, but to _yourself_.

It was nothing selfish, nothing corrupt, nothing meaningless or malicious.

It was _pure_. Your intentions had been _pure_.

You wanted to live, so you had.

You wanted to fight, so you had.

And you wanted to _win_. More than anything else.

This fire had distracted him. And so, _you had_. You had won.

And now, he was pacing the cavernous hallways of the Nemesis trying to understand an _Autobot_. Trying to understand his own fascination with you.

What made _you_ so special? What made you any different from the blue two-wheeler? Or from the yellow scout, the ex-Wrecker? What made you so different from Optimus Prime?

What made you so _special_?

 _Nothing_ , he realized. _Absolutely nothing._

And somehow, that was enough for him. No, _more_ than enough.

It was intoxicating. _Alluring_. He was so accustomed to this title or that history as a great commander, to this occupation or that training, to this reputation or that rumor.

But he knew _nothing_ about you. There was _nothing_ to set you apart from anyone else.

You could have been just another drone, another recently-enlisted.

A blank canvas, an empty slate, waiting to be filled.

Waiting to make art, to make something of yourself.

You weren’t special, but you _could_ be.

You were nothing because there were so many things you _could_ be.

You were a story waiting to be told.

He had never met anyone so... so...

 _Your choice of designation_.

 

"... so although you may not believe in her, she's more than proven herself."

Arcee. Angry, defensive, proud of you.

 _Oh, Arcee._ You _felt_ something then. It forced you to pause, to think it over.

Panic. What was wrong? Out of place?

There was a heat in your optics, a stinging pain.

A pain in your sparkchamber, a tightening.

You analyzed this, tried to remember the feeling. You couldn't recall ever having felt this way before. Not when Vivace had passed, not when your sire had, _never_.

You were crying.

You were _happy_.

Happy someone cared.

Happy _Arcee_ cared.

But Arcee had _always_ cared. You knew that much to be true.

Why was _this_ time different?

Because you hadn't felt anything before, _that's_ why. It was simple enough to know.

But you didn't understand. Why did you feel _now_?

Why did you care enough to take note of Arcee's camaraderie?

Because your spark wasn't frozen, anymore.

Some time ago, there were whispers that your spark may have frozen solid prior to being placed in your body. It had been an arduous journey for your creators, one your “bearer” did not survive. And yet, somehow, you had survived.

The Senate had claimed that it made you stone-cold. They whispered that his death had stolen your life before you even took a breath. How had your spark thawed? Why did you suddenly care?

Then, you were laughing.

Laughing, and crying, and _screaming_ , on your knees.

You were _feeling_ , and it hurt so much, but you didn't want it to stop.

 ** _Vivace was dead!_** Your sire, sweet and tender, was _dead_! Your “bearer” dead, all because of you!

How could you have _ever_ ignored this?

The coolant was overflowing, the pain almost too much to bear, but you _relished_ in it.

Relished in all that you had missed.

And then you realized that somewhere inside of you, you _knew_ why you were feeling.

And there was something warming your sparkchamber, making it feel full to the point of bursting, as if you could die right there. A warmth that brought the energon to your cheeks, set your metal aflame, made you laugh and cry harder and brought with it a sense of hopelessness, of hope, of despair, of joy, of delight and breathless sorrow and anger.

You were feeling because of _Dreadwing_. Somehow, with just a look, he had loosened the wires holding tight over your spark, keeping it in place. Now, it wouldn't stay. It wanted to sprout wings and fly far away, and you were torn between running _from_ and running _to_ him.

"How?" it was a whisper, after you had finally managed to talk yourself down from your own temporary madness.

(All of which had startled and frightened the others, for its abruptness.)

Optimus was standing before you, optics not unkind. You saw the reflection of your joy in his optics. There was fear and doubt in the optics of the others, worry, concern, love.

You had taken them all for granted.

But never again. _Never again_.

You were done living as a lifeless husk.

"Arcee, Optimus, _everyone_ , I know I have never said this before, but I love you. I have never loved anything more than I love you all at this moment. I know it must have been the pits living with me, dealing with how I allowed myself to rust away, but I promise you that I will do all I can to make sure that you all know, even if we were to lose this war, even if we were to die, what matters is that we have love, and each other, and Megatron _does not_. And perhaps that is the only truth, the only victory, that matters."

All was silent around you, the others taking time to digest what you had said, what had just happened before their very optics, taking time to understand the “miracle” (living proof of such, Drift would later claim).

The first to speak was Miko Nakadai, the human girl.

" _Whoa_."

Then, everyone reacted at once, all talking at once, asking you questions, Arcee rushing to make sure you were alright, Ratchet taking in your vitals to make sure you weren’t experiencing a glitch in the processor, Smokescreen whispering furiously with Bumblebee in the back, Bulkhead asking who had screwed with your helm and threatening to do something similar in return.

(And you were so overwhelmed by their care that you burst into tears all over again.)

But _Optimus_ knew. _Optimus_ understood. There was nothing wrong with you, nothing glitched in your processor. You weren’t close to death, or dying. In fact, you had only just come to life.

And he had his suspicions of who might’ve been to thank for that.

 

You had both said that you would be looking forward to when you should next meet.

And neither of you were lying (surprisingly, on _both_ accounts).

 

It was another artifact. The Skyboom Shield.

(Or so Ratchet had explained.)

He had emphasized how important it was that Team Prime make sure it never reached Decepticon hands. Er, _servos_.

Arcee had been nominated, as she was quicker and lighter on her feet, to run into heavily guarded Decepticon territory (a stake-out of the premises where the artifact was discovered to have been buried) and retrieve the artifact.

However, she would not go alone. She refused. And explained why.

"I may be able to get in, but with the artifact in hand, if I ever reach it without having to deal a single blow and thus alerting the 'cons to my presence, how am I supposed to _get out_ without a struggle? I can't go in alone. I pride myself on my combat skills, but I'm no _Optimus_. And even _he's_ not invincible."

"She's right. Arcee could wind up surrounded, with no way out. Best case scenario, they take both the artifact _and_ her - alive. Worst case scenario, lights out for Arcee, and one artifact gone, in the hands of the Decepticons. If we send her in, she might just do their job for them."

Bumblebee.

"So how about we lay the smack-down on them? Kick some 'con tailpipe, get what we need, and bridge back to base before backup arrives?"

Bulkhead.

(To which Miko demonstrated with a mighty kick to Jack Darby's shin.)

(He was none too pleased.)

"Because there are simply _too many_ of them, Bulkhead. Even if we _were_ to charge in with guns blazing, it doesn't necessarily mean we'd get what we came for. Chances are, there are so many of them, that by the time we finished one batch of Vehicons, there'd be another one coming in fresh from a groundbridge, and we don't have the numbers to spare for our own "backup". And by then, energon depletion would be colossal. There'd simply be no energy left to fight. In which case we lose the artifact, die, and/or both. And even if we came back here alive, artifact in hand, there'd be no way I could muster up enough of our supplies, which are quickly dwindling with each passing day, to make sure we didn't all pass out at once."

Ratchet refusing to do something so incredibly reckless for the sake of heroisms.

"Exactly," was Arcee's way of agreeing. "Which is why I want to nominate someone else to come with me."

"Like who?" Bumblebee, curious.

"Your choice of designation." This time, it was Rafael who spoke up, to everyone's surprise.

They all watched Arcee for confirmation. She didn't have to say a word.

Her faceplates said everything.

"Your choice of designation?" Their optics all flickered to your frame, standing still at the edge of the circle.

Some pairs of optics made quick work of suddenly appearing _very interested_ in other sights (Bumblebee and Bulkhead), while others were brave ( _daring_ ) enough to hold your gaze.

Smokescreen. Arcee. Ratchet. Optimus.

The children.

(Well, only because one of them had suggested your name, in the first place.)

"Your choice of designation?" asked Smokescreen once more.

"I don't know if that's such a good idea, Raf," the scout's chirps were hesitant, quieter than usual. "I mean, she's still recovering. From... from..."

" _Whatever_ it was that happened to her," Smokescreen filled in with an air of confidence.

(Not quite understanding how rude his implications were.)

"Smokescreen," began Arcee in a chiding tone.

"No, he's _right_ this time, Arcee," it was Ratchet. Stern. Unbending.

You saw the decision in his optics without him having to say it.

You were going nowhere beyond a vun of this base, if _he_ could help it.

"But she's proven herself, hasn't she?" the blue femme insisted.

"I'm honored by your concern, everyone, but honestly, I can handle this. I can handle _myself_. I know I may not look the part, but I've been fighting this war just as long as Bumblebee, if not longer," you decided to speak up at last.

Your words had a sort of unintended effect. They all appeared mystified, as if hearing your voice for the first time. This _always_ happened, now. Every time you opened your mouth, _Primus himself_ may well have spoken, for they froze as if they couldn't believe their audio receptors.

(And most likely, that was _exactly_ the case.)

"But the last time you went out," Bulkhead began to protest.

"I know, Bulkhead, and I'm sorry for worrying you. I suppose it was just something I owed to myself. It was time I came clean. But I can promise you that I will never again allow myself to be the subject of concern for this team."

There was doubt in his blue optics, but he said nothing.

It wasn't enough.

Because he wasn't the _only_ one in doubt. Even _Arcee_ was having her moment of question.

Second-guessing her own decision to bring you along.

"We are fulfilling a purpose here, everyone. An important one. One that will decide the fate of not only Cybertron, but of Earth, as well. We cannot afford to place restraints on ourselves, to discourage able-bodied Cybertronians from making their own choices and deciding their own fates. I am able to help, and so I will. It is my _right_ as a sentient being, and it is my _duty_ as a member of this team, as an _Autobot_. And if I have any say in this, which I believe I do, then I will fight for this planet, and for ours, until I take my very last breath. Because that is what I vowed to do when I took up the coat of arms. And I have already taken far too long to remember this as it is. I would rather let my past guide me to the bright future then to let it step on my pedes and stop me from advancing any further, as it has for _vorns_."

There was no arguing with you; they could all see it in your faceplates.

You were going, whether they agreed or not.

And truthfully, no one there wanted to dispute your very valid argument.

After all, the value of an Autobot was synonymous with their duty to present each and every sentient being with the freedom and choice to be and do as they wished. Denying you that right would be to deny their very foundation.

And no one was quick to jump onto that runaway train.

(Not to mention some were moved by your powerful words.)

(Bumblebee, Arcee, Bulkhead, Smokescreen, Ratchet - hell, even _Optimus_ was moved.)

"So, when do we start?" this was spoken directly to the others, a smile to Arcee to assure her that you were certain of your decision. Arcee's mask of caution withered.

She returned the smile with a, "Whenever you're ready."

 

And, so, there the two of you stood. Faceplates to faceplates, once more. ( _At last._ )

It had been three long cycles for the two of you, three cycles without _once_ seeing the other's faceplates (except in dreams and passing fancies). But your processors would not let you forget.

It brought you great curiosity to realize you _looked forward_ to meeting with the enemy.

It brought Dreadwing great fascination to notice this.

Neither of you said anything. Arcee had gone ahead to secure the artifact. Although their ( _very familiar_ ) red-plated medic proved a great distraction to the two-wheeler, she had only engaged her opponent for a few moments before finding an opening to neutralize him.

Then, she continued on. No doubt she had reached the artifact by now.

You found yourself wondering why Dreadwing (or his teammates) hadn't called for backup. Of course, most of them were unaware of the intrusion until recently (when he had found you), but didn't they suspect that, at the very least, you hadn't come alone?

 _No_. You heard their whispers. They believed you had come on your own to secure the artifact, as you had done before. (And _others_ _still_ whispered that you had not come for the artifact, but for Commander Dreadwing. As he had come for you.)

But what part was a rumor, a lie?

You knew why _you_ had come.

(Or _thought_ you knew.)

Did _he_?

"Dreadwing."

"Your choice of designation."

You felt the change in your faceplates before you realized that you were smiling.

And a brilliant smile it was.

He knew he should have felt threatened, wary, of the fact that his enemy was feeling _chipper_ under these circumstances. But he could only think of how lovely your expression was.

And then he, unable to prevent himself, was returning your gesture with a grin of his own.

Your sparkchamber felt warm, just as it had before, at the very thought of him.

But this time, he stood before you, the only distance between you a few feet of rough, dry sand. And he towered over you, but you felt no fear, no concern.

Only relief.

It astounded you, gave you pause.

What in the Pits could ever offer _relief_ in the presence of an enemy?

Did he feel the same...?

You dared to venture a look at his faceplates.

He remained unreadable. His expression was solemn once more, as if he had sobered up from the momentary delusion of seeing an old friend.

Still, you felt it was only right to tell him of what you had discovered.

 _He_ had done this to you, _for_ you.

Whether he was aware of the effect he had on you or not, you felt he deserved to know that _because_ of his presence, you had begun to _feel_ once more (if you _ever_ had, before). That you cared about something.

Anything. _Everything_.

"I must ask, your choice of designation."

_Why is it that just as I begin to think of you, we meet once more?_

"Ask away."

And you meant it.

"What if I inquire about something of import?"

He wasn't _planning_ to, but for the sake of playing Unicron's advocate...

( _And_ for the sake of curiosity...)

Were you as willing to lie to your cause for his sake as he was for _you_?

 _No_ , he reprimanded himself. _Only_ I _am such a fool._

Your way of response was a tilt of the helm.

It was his cue to continue. You were intrigued.

This was good. He could not stand the idea of having you feeling _bored_ by him when he felt nothing but _utter fascination_. It would be degrading and humiliating and would only further plant the seeds of doubt in his helm about what he was _doing_ , at this point.

"Did you come knowing I would be here?"

There was a flicker of emotion across your faceplates, to his utter surprise.

One he could not decipher.

"No. But I am glad to have found you. I have anticipated this."

"As have I." Relief flooded his spark. So, he had not been mistaken.

There was truly something _shifting_ beneath those still faceplates.

Something changing in your spark, as it had in his.

You offered him a quirk of your lips, a raise of the brow. "Are you not going to defeat me in battle, Commander Dreadwing? In honor of your Liege Lord?"

He paused, having not been expectant of such a forward invitation.

"I do not believe we stand before each other with the intention to spill energon for either of our causes, your choice of designation." He could not have been as honest with any other Autobot.

Or _anyone_ , for that matter.

"Then, why do you believe we _do_ stand before each other, Dreadwing?" you dropped the pretense of his title, having found the notion unfamiliar, alien to you.

 _Wrong_. It seemed wrong, sounded wrong, _felt_ wrong.

So, you forgot about it.

(And relished the _rawness_ of his designation on your glossa.)

He took a step closer, without air of confidence, only sincerity in his faceplates, a determination in his optics. The Eradicons had long-fled the area to pursue Arcee. You were yet to receive a message that the artifact had been secured.

(And should be concerned, should go to aide Arcee, but the blue femme had made her instructions very clear. _Stand guard, make certain that the ‘cons’ CO does not interfere in our efforts._ And so you did just that. Posed as a distraction, like a good little Autobot.)

Of course, this also had everything to do with the fact that you felt inclined to _welcome_ his company, however morally ambiguous or questionable it seemed.

There was the ghost of a touch along your faceplates, beneath your chin, across the wires in your throat. You feared he would choke you, or at the very least tear out your wiring, but he did not. He simply allowed himself to touch your, exvents labored, as if he had been in arduous combat all cycle long.

His optics were dim, unreadable. But there was a flare of _desire_ in your spark, in your servos and pedes. Your processor felt light, non-existent. Why was he doing this?

What was his end-game? Where did he hope this would lead?

He took another step, now _inches_ away, and his touch against your metal was light, hardly there, so that none could accuse him of cavorting with you, with  your choice of designation, _the enemy_. This thought should have reminded him of his place. And it _did_.

But the reality of the situation only fueled him further.

For a moment, both your sparks froze. The two of you realized what this looked like, how the situation could turn for the worse if either faction knew of your actions, how this condemned you both. (He briefly recalled rumors of _the List_ , and you wondered if Ultra Magnus or Prowl would be able to _sense_ your treachery from across ten galaxies.)

"We have much to discuss, your choice of designation, and now is not the time nor the place."

"What do you propose we do to remedy the situation?"

The two of you had made your decisions. Despite whatever reservations either of you would normally maintain, you had to ease the burning in your sparks. So he leaned forward, his lips barely brushing against your audial receptor.

And spoke numbers. Then, you saw only a world of black.

The last thing you felt was the ghost of a promise lingering across your cheek.

 

You mused that the sand looked like glass, shimming under just the right angle of moonlight. Earth's moon was a truly marvelous spectacle.

As were the geysers. The numbers he had provided were coordinates, you had come to realize. You had awoken back at base, fussed over by Ratchet and Arcee, who apologized a thousand times for her “terrible decision” of leaving you behind to deal with the ‘cons’ reigning Second-in-Command.

"I hadn't thought they'd send him again," Arcee had admitted.

But you had dismissed their concerns, sincerely confiding that he had brought you to no harm. You did _not_ , however, confide in them the _contents_ of your discussion with him. There was no need to tell them. Not when you knew that they would never understand.

(You barely understood it, yourself.)

Night had come, three cycles later, and, just as promised (as they had finally allowed you some peace of time and space for yourself after the incident), you followed the coordinates to meet him among the dunes and geysers of a place the humans referred to as the Black Rock Desert. It wasn't too far from the Autobot base, from the spot where the two of you had first met in Nevada.

And he was there. Waiting. Posture just as straight as when you had first laid optics on him, faceplates wistful, a longing in his optics as he gazed up at the skies. Not for the first time, you wondered what was on his processor.

Then, he turned to face you, presumably hearing the sound of your footfalls, and all of your thoughts fell away. Nothing existed but Dreadwing.

You seemed to produce a similar effect. He looked positively mystified.

"Your choice of designation." His voice was dry, as though he had been depleted of his energon resources.

Your own glossa wanted to swallow itself.

You two were alone. For the first time, no enemies surrounded either of you, there were no artifacts to retrieve, no end-goal in mind, no one to report back to. It was just one mech and one femme, _no alignment_ , there for personal reasons.

Or, _a_ personal reason.

(That is, to understand your respective companions ( _each other_ ).)

"Dreadwing."

It seemed as if this one word, his designation spoken from your lips, destroyed something.

Fractured his sense of control.

Of sensibility.

He took a step forward, and then another. Then, he paused, blinked those burning red optics, such beauties as they were. As if he could hardly believe you were here, that this was _really happening_.

"Come."

It was not a question, nor a request.

You both needed this, and he knew it just as well as you did.

Your stabilizing servos almost failed you, but you managed to cross the distance.

You wondered vaguely what you would do once you reached him, whether you would stop before him or keep walking right off the cliff behind him. Time was meaningless.

So was gravity.

You felt like you were floating through a dream.

And then, he caught you before you could fall.

Just as Vivace had done so long ago.

"Your choice of designation," he whispered.

"I don't - I can't -"

"I know," his tone was firm. He lowered his helm, fingers brushing along your cheek, and then his faceplates were so close to yours that you could feel his every exvent against your optics. Clouding them. _No_ , cleaning away the grime.

You saw clearly now. Everything before had been a farce, _a joke_ , in the face of this greatness.

In the face of _Dreadwing_.

"I can't leave you again," your throat felt constricted, the wires tangled.

"Then you must know that I cannot, as well."

"What is happening to us? What will happen -"

"What is happening is what needs to happen. It's better not to let our doubts, mistakes that they are, cloud what we know to be right. I may not know much about the grace of my fallen Lord, I may not know the future of the Decepticons, of this war, of our home and this one, but I do take comfort in knowing that I truly believe I cannot live without knowing you."

 _Fallen Lord?_ Future of the Decepticons, of the Autobots, the war, your home...?

 _None of it mattered_ , anymore. Dreadwing was right.

All futures, all truths, were uncertain, changing like variables, fleeting as words on the winds.

But this _faith_ , this _desire_ , this _longing_ , it was all that kept the two of you tethered to existence.

To each other.

There was no such thing as black and white. There was only faith. Only purpose.

Only the self and its own path.

And you chose Dreadwing. You would choose him in every life, this one and the next, and twenty afterward. Optimus Prime was not your purpose. The Autobot cause was not your purpose. Cybertron was not your purpose.

Not your faith, not your _truth_.

"You are my purpose," you said, so calmly, so clearly, unmistaken.

He felt his spark shudder.

"As you are mine."

And as his hand closed over yours, as his lips finally met yours, your optics dimmed, and the world fell away around you. You could see nothing but the black of the night, and the white of the moon.


	5. Love, Sex, and How to Tell the Difference || IDW Transformers: Several Arcs || Multiple Pairings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You are an expert at loving the wrong people and breaking your own spark.
> 
> If only the sex wasn't so distracting, maybe you could have taken control of your own life and developed some self-respect.
> 
> It's too bad that you have a type, and that type happens to be: "dangerous and painful".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is definitely a multiple-pairing fic involving the reader and several characters. The characters are not random; there is a clear succession of past lovers, and a clear connection between them and the pain the reader feels as a result (and the fact that the reader never quite seems to recover; because, you know, your type sucks, and there's no such thing as "love" in the bedroom).
> 
> Some lovers are not explicitly shown, but mentioned. If you would like an in-depth tale of all of this particular 'bot's failed loves and not-so-loved-meaningless-lovers, let me know. You might be surprised to know what you (the reader) got up to, in your attempts to find what Chromedome and Rewind have.
> 
> The lovers mentioned are Prowl (IDW -- pre-Exodus, during the war), Kaon (IDW -- during the Exodus, prior to his membership in the DJD and prior to his having joined the Decepticons; he is thusly known as "Circuit"; this same interpretation of his time prior to being a loyal Decepticon will probably be used in future works, just a heads-up), and Getaway (IDW -- during the journey of the Lost Light, prior to issue 47).
> 
> I can't promise you that you will be able to enjoy the sex scenes, since the reader's characterization, itself, is pretty sad.
> 
> But, hey, try to enjoy it, anyways, for your own sake.

"Sex is the consolation you have when you can't have love.”

\- Gabriel García Márquez

The stars were bright that night. ( _Too bright_.)

It was a beautiful night - a _romantic_ night. Maybe that was why you dropped your guard. You would never have allowed yourself to touch him like this, otherwise. You would never have _dreamed_ of doing much more than stealing little looks whenever he wasn't paying attention, under any other circumstances.

But tonight - tonight, he looked back at you, _and you didn't look away_.

And then, you flashed your denta at him in an open-mouthed smile (unashamed?), and he did something you never would have expected. He grinned in return.

(Why?)

(It could be because he had gotten exactly what he'd wanted.)

(It could be because you had let him pin that badge on your chasis.)

(It could be because he never made any sense, anyhow...?)

(Sigh...)

Those blue optics, like a fresh cube of compressed engex (high-class, none of that weak, tasteless brand) - they were enough to get you breathing heavy, breathing hard.

(You knew this meant you would have to return home with that heated feeling you often got in your plating when you thought about him. You would have to return to your home and do something to alleviate the frustration and the pain of lack-of-fruition.)

(You’d been wrong.)

You had been preparing to leave, searching through your database for tunes, anything loud enough to block out the screaming in your spark, the pain in your valve.

And then his fingers had touched yours, a gesture meant to attract your attention.

You looked up, lip components parting so you could ask what he wanted _this time_ , but you couldn't speak. You grew silent, all because of that look in his optics.

A look filled with desire. "Your choice of designation," he all-but-breathed out, and then, you pulled him in close, pressing your lip components against his. No, more like _crushing_ your lip components against his, silencing any protests.

(Not like he made any attempt to voice them.)

(Because, for perhaps the first time since you’d met, all those years ago, he _had_ none.)

His body responded so quick you couldn't catch your breath (if you’d wanted to), fingers running up along the curves of your arms, then tracing down along your hip plating. Smooth plating under rough fingertips.

He shuddered, and then he lost his carefully-maintained control.

He was picking you up, then, and you were wrapping your legs around his waist. Your audial-amplifiers fell with a clatter, but you didn't hear it - not over the loud pulsing of your sparkbeat in your audial receptors, not over the sound of his smooth voice whispering your designation like a prayer.

You had never done this before. He couldn't tell, not from the way you were arching into his caresses, not from the way you were seeing stars and crying out his designation like both a blessing and a curse.

He stumbled through the cavernous room, breathing out against your lip components, raking them with his denta. You laughed, a loud and jarring sound in the silence that was previously only interrupted by your whispers.

He managed to regain control of himself, if only for a moment, long enough to whisper, optics drowning in an aching desire that filled you with a fire you had never quite felt so strongly until then: "If we do this, your choice of designation, there is no taking it back."

You caught your breath, then, and grinned at him, optics hazy and faceplates flushed with heat. "Oh, Prowl," you cooed, voice nearly a purr, optics sultry in the dim lighting. "Tell me, what are the chances of me regretting this?"

"Do you want numbers, your choice of designation?"

A single optical ridge rose, painting a perfect picture of desirability.

"I like it when you talk probability," you giggled, a sound that would normally be so immature, _so girlish_ , in any other situation. But now, with this breathlessness, it was the sound of a fully-matured femme. One whom had conquered, and been conquered. (In other words, nothing like yourself.)

"I see this playing out in two different ways. You either completely lose yourself to my touch, or you hate every second of it," he said, and although he probably shouldn't have (he didn't want to come on too strong, though considering the situation, it was probably already too late for that), he grinned.

Something about that predatory look in his faceplates sent shudders down your back struts. Instead of confessing how nervous you (clearly) were about this ordeal, you lifted a single ped, lowering your thigh, something you had seen from a dancer in Kaon. A sultry action you were surprised to see earn the desired response from the officer.

He came closer, movements slow as his fingers ran along said ped. You trembled, managing to keep a straight face as he began to trail kisses along your ankle, the metal heating upon contact.

"Your choice of designation," he breathed out, beginning to trail those sinfully wonderful kisses higher along your leg, pressing indents into your thighs, coaxing them apart. Your valve was uncomfortably warm, begging for cool air.

He paused, only for a klik, and then, he laughed, a low and dangerous sound. "I can _smell_ your arousal,  your choice of designation. I'm beginning to think you've been looking forward to this for quite some time."

"Something like that," you murmured, fingers grazing along his helm, gently tracing along his faceplates. He shuttered his optics, and then his fingers laid across yours, stopping you mid-stroke.

Pulling said fingers towards his lip components, he placed gentle kisses along the joints in your fingers, and then he kissed along the circuits in your wrist. It was such a gentle gesture that your optics began to feel oddly heavy, filled with a liquid you couldn't understand.

(Prowl had never been like this before. He wasn't gentle. It wasn't in his nature.)

(So why...?)

( _How_...?)

Your very-much-emotional reaction didn't slip past his attention.

He looked up towards your faceplates, expression scrunched in scrutiny, and then he leaned in close, pressing his lip components against yours. And this time, his hand cupped your cheekplate, nearly cradling your face against his as he moved his lip components against yours.

And then, his glossa slipped into your mouth, past your lips, and you felt your faceplates heating up as his hips ground against yours. His fingers traveled south, abandoning their post to explore unknown territory, one finger beginning to rub, almost meticulously, against your valve-cover.

This time, you whimpered into your kiss, and could feel his lip components pulling into a smug grin of victory. He pulled back, glossa traveling along your lip components before he began to kiss, slow, sensual, along your throat.

"Prowl," you moaned out, voice pathetic, now, nearly a whimper (again).

"All evidence indicates that this is sure to work out in my favor," was his response. You nearly sighed in exasperation, but then were crying out, arching up against his heated plating, when his fingers found themselves slipping past the rim of your valve. Your plating had retracted when the pleasure became too much to ignore. (Or bear.)

(You didn't have very much control over your interphasing equipment.)

"Your valve has no discipline, your choice of designation," he observed aloud, sounding as if he were merely discussing the state of a domesticated turbofox with a colleague.

"How unfortunate," you barely managed to keep up.

"Oh, don't worry, teasing nickname for your choice of designation," he stated with that grin you could only _imagine_ he was wearing (judging by the sound of his voice), "I'm going to help you. I'm going to soothe your pain, your frustration. If you're anything like me, you won't feel satisfied until you've gotten what you wanted."

Every word he emphasized with a caress here, a squeeze there.

And then, he retracted his touch. Completely.

You whimpered in protest.

And he met your lip components with his again before you were filled to the brim. The sensation was mind-numbing. You were starstruck. You almost loved him.

(Did you...?)

(That would be a dangerous move, indeed. Prowl was not a ‘bot who could be loved easily.)

You were given little time to think about it. He was moving, again.

Laughing, breathlessly.

You had never seen him so content, purring like a turbofox, optics alight with an almost child-like joy. Like someone who had just discovered the joys of interphasing. (Like you had.)

"Prowl," you cried out, trying to speak, trying to say something smart, but he covered you up with his kisses, and moved, and you were melting into his arms.

You were seeing stars, now. He alternated - rough, then gentle kisses, slow movements. His movements were a hypnotizing rhythm you never wanted to stop listening to.

His whispers were like aphrodisiac to you, his touch intoxicating.

The pleasure flowed, but never ebbed.

And then, he said it. He said it while he was deep inside of you, optics alight with mischief at the sound of your cries, ridged spike rubbing up against the calipers on the roofside of your valve. He said it when your reason was nearly gone, completely.

"I don't think I've loved until now."

You slipped away, unable to process his words until it was too late.

Far too late to repent.

* * *

 

It was on another night like that one that you found yourself sitting alone at the bar. Stirring your drink, expression glum. Busboy wasn't paying too much attention to you.

You kept the shanix coming, and so, the drinks did, too.

Your thoughts were blurring together, music swaying your body, and you realized you were tired of sitting around feeling sorry for yourself. You needed to dance.

And you did.

You got up, asked Busboy for a favor.

He nodded his helm, the only sign he had heard you.

And then, the music was flowing through the bar's speakers.

People began to get up and move towards the bar, ordering drinks to steel their nerves. You didn't pay them attention - your body begged you to move.

So you did.

The music was pumping through you like engex, and you moved with it like you’d been born to dance. (And maybe you had.)

You ignored the looks until you noticed that they were cheering you on.

("Frag. I didn't know your choice of designation could move like that," observed Slander.)

A few kliks passed, and you finally noticed that you were smiling.

Smiling brighter than you had in years.

Resolve wasn't here, anymore, no, but that didn't mean _you_ had to die, too.

That being decided, you took Newspeak's servo and pulled him up with you. He laughed, and Doublethink spilled his drink in his surprise.

It was maybe hours later when you finally realized, after all the dancing was building up a strange energy in your body, that you were being watched by someone who hadn't dared approach you.

You spun on your heel, optics wide with delight, faceplates flushed with excitement, and your optics met. (More or less.)

His beautiful amethyst optics were nearly magenta in the lighting of the bar.

And he _was_ watching you. Looking so sad, like his whole world had ended.

(And maybe it had.)

You approached him, then, confidence bubbling along with the engex in your tanks.

"Your choice of designation?"

"Let's get you to your habsuite," you gave him no room to object.

He got up to his feet, standing barely much taller than you, and let you lead him out by the servo, like a lost pup. He stayed close, heat from his plating warming up the cold left behind by the engex.

Neither of you spoke a word, not until you got to his habsuite.

The one he used to share with Resolve.

He looked nearly ready to collapse into tears.

You hated seeing him like this, but you weren’t _nearly_ brave enough to touch him much more than this. And then:

"Stay with me?"

You hesitated, but in the end, you caved. Like you _always_ did.

When it came to Circuit, there probably wasn't anything you _wouldn't_ do.

"Of course." Your voice was soft, quiet.

He pulled you in close, suddenly, using his grip on your servo to hold you in place as he laid his helm against your chasis. He seemed to be listening for something, waiting.

And then, he did something odd that made your spark glitch: he let go of your servo and wrapped his arms around you. "Circuit?"

"Don't go," he choked out.

"I won't."

"Promise me. Promise me you'll never leave me," he insisted.

(Resolve's death had really done a number on him, it seemed.)

(You could hardly deny yourself this much.)

"I promise, Circuit," you said, voice soft, touch gentle against his helm. (Like your carrier had done many times before to comfort you during your earlier years.)

He was silent for a few kliks. Then, he lifted his helm, expression unreadable.

Your spark glitched out, again, but this time, you swallowed hard.

"Prove it to me," he whispered.

You didn't know how - you said as much.

He paused, and then he grinned, a terrible sight in the near-pitch-black darkness of his habsuite. He giggled, a sound made eerie by the circumstances you found yourselves in.

"I have an idea."

He pushed you back, and you found yourself sprawled across his berth. He dropped to his servos and knees, hovering over you, giggling, and for maybe the first time in your life, you found that the noise was terribly arousing.

He tilted his helm, then, optics taking note of your appearance.

Breathing hard, uncertainty in your optics, frame trembling.

(He decided he liked you like this.)

"Will you scream for me, sickly sweet nickname for your choice of designation?"

He was such a pretty picture, all flushed like this.

You underestimated his penchant for torment.

"I'll do whatever you want, Circuit."

(Wolpe would disapprove. He would say this agreement, this secret, was toxic. But you didn't have to tell them anything. They didn't _deserve_ to know.)

(You were the only person left who loved him. And he knew it.)

He nodded his helm, almost solemnly. A cough of static filled his vocalizer, but you were already halfway to his lip components - you saw no reason to stop yourself now. Tight ventilations licked against your faceplates when your lips met in a kiss that sent shivers down your backstruts (the tingles from his touch weren't helping) - eventually, your limbs began to relax, loosen up, when he began to return the gesture.

His kiss tasted bitter - like a shot of Nightmare Fuel. And his glossa was heavy with guilt, with grief, as you slipped your own glossa past his lip components, exploring the sticky contours of his mouth.

Too soon you let go, pulled back, your denta biting along his bottom lip.

He shuddered.

"I think we should start here," you breathed against his mouth, staring into his optics, the magenta orbs looking right back as your fingers rubbed along his backstruts. His interphasing equipment began to heat up against you, and he finally seemed to stir from his trancelike state.

"If - if you say so." His glossa came alive, now, winding around yours as soon as you kissed him again, pushing towards the back of your mouth, beginning to lean into your body - and right against the warmth that was beginning to build up between your legs (for the first time in years). His digits began to push almost excitedly against the cover over your valve.

And then, there was a shock that emitted from his fingertips.

Your cover slid open, rendered pointless.

"How did -?"

You didn’t get to say much else before his fingers, two of them, plunged through your wet folds. You threw your helm back, and a thrust from your hips pulled them deeper inside. Your mouth opened, now, as you cried out.

He laughed, now, an unfriendly and dark sound. You (almost) didn't care.

"Same sickly sweet nickname from before?"

"Don't stop -!" you breathed out, voice nearly a whimper as his fingertips emitted another one of those delicious tingle-inducing shocks. ( _Electricity_ , you realized. _Volts of electricity. He's pumping pure energy into my valve_.)

But it wasn't just his fingertips. It seemed like _his whole body_ was crackling with energy, touches sending vibrations straight through your wiring. Just when you thought you would pass out from the horrid ( _wonderful_ ) combination of pain and pleasure, he lowered his servo, caressing along your thigh, before he pushed to open up your legs. And then, he was pushing past the slick folds of your valve, and he was filling you up with his spike.

(The volts never disappeared - not completely.)

(In fact, they were almost erratic as he lost himself to the tightness of your valve.)

He hissed, helm thrown back at the incredible sensation. The calipers along your valve walls clamped down along his ribbed length. He was much bigger than you had expected. (Not as big as Prowl, but you supposed it wasn't fair to compare regular mechs to control-freak-police-officers.)

You _definitely_ didn't mind this sensation.

"Does it - does it feel good?" he asked, and you could only barely nod your helm.

You were trying not to let your vocalizer fizzle out. _That would be unfortunate._

"I, myself, can see what I've been missing out on, same sickly sweet nickname from before. Your valve is _exactly_ what I needed," his exvents heated up the thick coolant dripping down your plated chasis, beads of pleasure slipping down along both of your frames.

"What a smooth-talker," you caught your breath long enough to giggle.

He returned the gesture with a press of his forehelm against yours.

And then, he began to pull out, and your optics began to glitch out as he pressed fleeting kisses to them. The charges were driving you _insane_...!

"Circuit -!"

He pressed his lips against your throat, smiling against the plating, and then, he began to push in, and pull out. The calipers in your valve tightened around his spike with every movement, the gaps between you filling with transfluid.

This continued for a few minutes, his rhythm enough to make you come undone _at least twice_ before you were seeing sparks behind your closed optical lids. Suddenly, he was crying out, as well, _laughing_ , almost, as his lip components crashed into yours.

Your optics cracked open long enough to see what appeared to be _lightning_ exploding from his optical lenses, cracking the glass and almost charring them black. The voltage swept through his mouth into yours, and then, every light in the room fizzled out.

The new darkness was only sullied by the lingering glow of fluids and stray sparks of energy sizzling across Circuit's wiring. He was still straddling you, helm bowed, and then his mouth opened against yours as he giggled into your mouth.

"Did we just -?"

"Uh-uh. That was all _you_ ," you retorted.

His immediate response was a wordless, enthusiastic grin, and then he pulled out of you momentarily to scrutinize his spike, optics fizzling with excitement. "Can I interest you for a _round two_?"

You pressed your lip components together to prevent yourself from giggling at his hopeful expression. “You sure can.”

* * *

 

The night was long, stretching on into seemingly forever.

There was nothing to do but walk and walk and walk.

And think.

And feel silly.

And hate yourself.

You were so incredibly _stupid_.

How could you have ever believed that anyone had ever loved you _half_ as much as _you_ had loved _them_? Prowl? Circuit?

They had never felt **_anything_** in their black little sparks.

You were just a _distraction_ ; temporary entertainment.

Yes, Tailgate was being manipulated. But, hadn't you been through the same thing many a time? Primus only _knew_ how Getaway touched him in private.

You shuddered at the thought. It was no different from the way that Circuit had touched _you_ , the way that Prowl had _kissed_ you. **_Lies. All lies._**

You felt so alone, now, more than ever.

You shuffled to the side, optics watching the stars float on by.

The stars winking messages.

Messages of death, of failure, of sadness.

You had never been anything more than a horrific failure.

Not brave enough to fight like you wanted to. Not brave enough to wear any kind of badge. Not brave enough to confront Getaway, to tell him to _knock it off_.

(Not even brave enough to feel ashamed of yourself for falling so easily for Getaway's eccentric charm.)

He was so mean-spirited, and he lied more often than his spark pulsed, but still, you couldn't help yourself whenever he looked your way. And Candid knew.

(And even though Candid didn't say so, you _knew_ you had let her down.)

(All because of your weak, traitorous spark; the same one that never did you any favors.)

"Shanix for your thoughts?"

You startled, and turned on your heel.

There he was, the mech of the hour: Getaway. Optics blue, like Prowl's, but the malice more like Circuit’s. Expression smooth, hard to read into.

( _Nigh impossible_ to understand.)

You couldn't keep looking at him, couldn't keep fooling yourself into thinking _maybe he's not so bad_.

So, you looked away. And you tried not to say a word.

And failed.

"Go away, Getaway," you couldn't help the lame joke.

It fell flat, you _knew_ it, but he laughed, anyways (maybe for your sake, maybe to make you drop your guard… _who knows_?).

But he didn't leave. He approached you, arms spread, as if to hug you.

You flinched away.

He paused, and then, his arms lowered.

His helm tilted, almost like he was trying to decipher your actions.

"Did I - was it something I did?"

"Not yet, no," you murmured, and then, you approached one of the large windows, servos coming to rest flat along the ridge. Your expression was filled with grief. He took a few steps, coming to rest beside you, helm turned your way. A question in his optics, one he didn't ask.

(Thankfully.)

Eventually, though, someone had to cave.

And it was _you_ , to no one’s surprise.

"Why are you here, Getaway? Don’t you have a lot going on? Lotta irons in the fire?”

(Your subtle method of accusation.)

(He might’ve caught on, or maybe not; either way, he gave you no indication that he had understood your reference.)

“What, you mean my plans with the scout?”

Your silence was response enough. You didn’t mean to look so sullen, but you couldn’t believe that he could approach you so _casually_ , as if nothing was wrong, and talk to you about **_Tailgate_** , of all ‘bots, as if the both of you didn’t know what was _really_ going on, as if he wasn’t keeping a terrible secret (and as if you didn’t _know_ he was doing it).

"Well, Tailgate sucks at fishing, so..." it sounded like a joke. You didn't even smile.

So he didn't, either.

"What's wrong? Is it the memories? Are they bothering you?"

You sighed, optics leaving the stars to look into his.

He was staring back so intensely that you almost choked on your own breath.

"I - um - well..." you rubbed the back of your helm. “It’s actually a lot more _complicated_ than I can afford to explain."

"You don't trust me." It wasn't a question.

"No." You were relieved. Finally, _finally_ , you could speak your truth. "No, I don't."

"I'm not so sure that's a bad thing, affectionate nickname for your choice of designation."

" _Don't_ \- don't call me that."

"Okay. I guess that's fair." He was watching you, now.

Expression difficult to read into.

It was _always_ like this. You could never understand the people you loved.

That's what made it so easy to lose yourself to your silly fantasies.

"I should go." Your fingers slipped from the ledge, and you turned to head towards your habsuite. You spark was beginning to ache.

Looking at _him_ only made it worse.

"No, wait," he reached out, fingers making contact with yours, a brief and fleeting touch, and you couldn't help it. You shoved him away. And looked up into his faceplates.

The way he was looking at you - almost like how you used to look at Circuit, at _Prowl_.

"You don't - you don't have the right - who gave you the right -?"

Your words were coming out all wrong.

This had never happened before.

"Your choice of designation, why are you acting like this? What's got you hurting inside?"

" ** _You don't get the right to ask me that, Getaway!_** "

He stepped back.

You exvented, hard.

And then, you burst into tears.

You were so embarrassed at your momentary collapse into weakness.

(It was dangerous - you shouldn’t trust him, _not him_.)

(There was danger in his optics.)

(He knew how to take advantage of this kind of display. You just _knew_ it.)

But when he touched you like this, when he pulled you in close, when he pressed your helm against his chasis and held you while you sobbed out other mechs' designations - you wanted to believe that maybe you were wrong.

You wanted to believe that _Candid_ was wrong, and that Getaway really _did_ care about you. Because no one, _not even_ _Candid_ , had ever done this for you.

No one had ever bothered to ask you what _you_ wanted.

They all just assumed, and made guesses, and kept going.

No one had ever paused to ask you what was on your processor, to talk to you about your music or laugh at your horrible, badly-timed jokes.

Getaway was also the only person who had ever told you that you were beautiful, and brave, and _would make a fine Autobot warrior_.

You weren’t sure if he actually believed that (especially considering that it was too late for that), but you _really_ wanted to believe his lie (?), even if only momentarily. " Your choice of designation," he whispered, now, as he held you against himself.

You tightened your grip on him, and then, remembering yourself, you pushed him away.

You _couldn't_.

Not now. _Not ever again._

You would never be a victim, not ever again.

…

…

…

After tonight.

Tonight would be the _last_ _time_.

(You tried to disregard the fact that this hadn’t been the first time you’d claimed as much, and probably wouldn’t be the last.)

"Getaway, I need you to lie to me."

His expression didn't change.

"Tell me what you know I want to hear. Tell me what I _need_ to hear."

"Same affectionate nickname from before," he started, voice soft, touch gentle, much gentler than even Prowl's, and you nearly ripped away from him. He paused, watching you warily. And then, when he saw that you _weren’t_ going to pull away, the tension began to bleed out of his joints. "I want you to know that when I tell you that I care about you, it's not a lie. No matter what anyone tells you, _it isn't_."

"That's good enough," you whispered, but before you could do anything else, like maybe kiss him, _he_ was kissing _you_. So rough, _hard_ , almost _desperately_.

There was a rawness to it that disarmed you.

Circuit and Prowl had tried to maintain control with you.

As had everyone else you’d ever been with. (None of which you had loved.)

_What was he doing?_

He broke the kiss, optics heavy, as his palms cupped your faceplates, fingers caressing gently along the curves of your jaws, tracing along your lip components, rubbing over your optical lids. You closed your optics, in turn, shuttering them for a klik, and then he was pulling you away, touch soft, just barely _existent_.

Away from that hallway, away from the stars.

And then, you found yourself looking through the glass windows of your own habsuite. Without any idea how you got there.

You felt a silent panic rising.

You had never done this, before, not inside your own home.

Not on Cybertron, not on the _Event Horizon_...

What was he trying to accomplish?

Didn't he know that this was much harder?

And yet, you couldn't push him away.

Didn't want to.

(?)

He pulled you in close, pressing an almost chaste kiss against your lip components. And then, he locked your habsuite down with the appropriate serial digits.

(Which you briefly wondered about – _how did he know your passcode_?)

A few kliks passed before he was pulling away, expression still as unreadable as ever, but with a tenderness present in his optics that you didn't recognize.

"I want to be someone you **_trust_** , same affectionate nickname from before. I want to be someone you can feel **_safe_** with."

There was an unspoken question.

But this time, you knew the answer. _The right one_. The one he undoubtedly wanted to hear.

"You already are, Getaway. You always were."

He looked like he was smiling, and for the first time, you weren’t afraid of what it could mean, didn't care enough to wonder. And it scared you - your _lack_ of concern.

But he wiped that fear away with his touch, and then, he was kissing you again, and taking careful, measured steps back, slowly, as his glossa gently coaxed yours into play. You found yourself smiling against his lip components.

"Don't cut yourself on my edges, same nickname from before," it was probably a warning, but issued the way that it was - it sounded almost _romantic_. **_Loving_**.

You wanted to believe that he cared enough about you to warn you. That he wasn't just being ironic, or sarcastic, or funny. And then, he turned, and fell onto your berth. This time, _you_ were the one looking down on _him_. His optics were wide open for maybe the first time since you’d met.

He looked nearly excited, _happy_.

You told yourself that it wasn't a lie. (Whilst knowing that it _was_.)

And then, you closed the distance, and, to your credit, only hesitated _very_ _momentarily_.

He didn't steal any more kisses. Instead, he waited, _very patiently_.

Before he could ask if you were alright, you were kissing him, again, glossa exploring his mouth, pressing up against his. (Spark warming, even as you tried to prevent it, because he was being so gentle and so kind and so _different_ from what you had expected.) He groaned, panting quietly as you ground against him, body fitting almost perfectly against his. You were surprised to discover that you were already soaking through your valve's cover.

His fingers grasped at your metal plating, expertly kneading a cluster of nodes along your backstruts, and you were whispering his name before pressing your lips together, again.

He ground up against you, fingers pressing into your waist, leaving indentations, and you cried out as you found that his shaft had slipped past his port covering. Your fingers ghosted across bits and pieces of his armor, eventually coming across the smooth expanse of his spike, dripping with transfluid, and beginning to rub along the length, before dipping (one or two of them) past the mesh lips of his valve, momentarily. He jerked against you, your designation lodged in his throat.

" _No teasing_ ," you reminded yourself, and he laughed, a breathless sound. A _kind_ sound. Something you nearly allowed yourself to trust. If you didn't think about what Candid had told you, if you only permitted yourself to think about how he had _treated_ you thus far, how he touched you and kissed you and _held_ you, you could almost believe that this love was **_right_**. That you were justified in loving him so much that your spark hurt.

"I agree, 100%. I would really like to – _ah_ ” ( _that sweet whimper_ – how could someone so _cold_ and _evil_ twist your spark around his fingers with just a little lick of the lip components and that endearing smile?) “- to move on,  same nickname from before. Though we can stop here; this sweet torture is **_enough_** , if you say it is."

" ** _Oh, Getaway_** ," you sobbed, and then you were guiding his length into your valve, without preparation, with bated breath. He paused, breath nearly leaving his body, altogether, before pulling you close, pressing his lip components against yours, once more.

The way he felt inside of you, the way he sighed your designation, was enough to keep you awake through the momentary grief you experienced. And then, it was enough to get you through the ordeal that unfolded within that very same week.

It was enough to get you through Tailgate and Cyclonus' fall from grace – it was enough to withstand the disgust in everyone's optics, the pity ( _not pity_ , he insisted) in Rung’s, the disappointment in Candid's.

But it tore you apart inside to know that his words had all been a lie.

And that, worse yet, you had known it all along.


	6. Dearest One || IDW Transformers: More Than Meets the Eye || Drift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, a miserable life of suffering and confusion and heartbreak can have a happy ending.
> 
> All you need to do is believe -- and with Drift, believing just comes too easily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember how I said that the character (via the reader) in the Prowl/Kaon/Getaway project would have a happy ending?
> 
> Well, here's my proof.
> 
> Of course, it would just so happen to be that two miserable, self-hating 'bots are able to find happiness and love and acceptance in each other. Go figure. lol. Seriously, though, all jokes aside, Drift is precious, and I feel like he would treat his conjunx right.
> 
> (Beyond right, actually.)
> 
> Enjoy, and have a box of tissues at the ready. You will cry, laugh, and swoon, all at once -- that much, I can promise you.
> 
> Drift: the eternal romantic.

“I've never had a moment's doubt. I love you. I believe in you completely. You are my dearest one. My reason for life.”

\- Ian McEwan, _Atonement_

 

**~ Act of Intimacy ~**

The stars floated on by, winking, speaking in a language you couldn't understand. A language you weren’t quite so sure you _would ever_ understand.

You felt lost in them, in the stars, like you couldn't look away.

Because you felt like you were missing something, like there was something _familiar_ about their beauty. But what? What were you thinking about? What was the connection your processor was trying to make?

(It was probably for the best that you couldn't remember.)

Changing the (mental) subject, you began to wonder why Drift had asked to meet with you in private. He didn't often ask you to meet him in private - had something happened?

Were you in trouble? Had you done something wrong?

( _Of course_ you had. You had (accidentally) caused the ship to be tracked down by the Decepticon Justice Division (or _DJ-Donuts_ , as you liked to call them).)

(You know, before you had actually known that they weren’t _cute_ or _funny_ , at all.)

(Which may have occurred to you once you realized that they were _Circuit’s_ new psychotic batch of friends. (And that one of them had taken an unholy interest in you.))

(Had Ultra - er, _Ambus_ told anyone, yet?)

Your spark felt heavy, optics filled with a burning that you despised.

You were always quick to shed coolant. What a _sparkling_ you had become.

( _Boo-hoo, your choice of designation. Go cry to somebody who **cares**._ )

You moved, automatically, to wipe at your optics.

Warmth enveloped your fingers, and you peered out through the gaps, catching sight of blue. _Drift_. He had found you crying.

( _Pathetic_.)

"Well, this is just _awkward_ ," you attempted to joke, and even laughed to prove your point, to deflect his attention. He didn't return the gesture.

In fact, he didn't do or say anything ( _else_ ) about it. He sat beside you, pedes hanging over the side of the small platform. The body of oil was almost beautiful in the light of the stars - shining like energon, reflecting your faceplates back at you when you peered down between your own legs.

You picked up a small piece of metal, peeling from the platform's edge, and chucked it. Halfheartedly. And still got points for your throw. (It had made it at least _fifteen_ kliks!)

"Success," you murmured, and then peered out through the side of your optics at Drift's faceplates, trying to gauge his reaction, trying to figure out what was going through his processor.

There was no point in denying it, anymore.

"How much trouble am I in?"

He startled. "I'm sorry?"

"Cut the scrap, Drift." You tried to smile at him, but came across as much more miserable than you would have liked. "I know what I did, and I don't want to play any games. Not with _you_. So - how much trouble am I in?"

His fingers met yours once more, and you realized that you had missed the warmth of his touch only when the cold was replaced by it. "Why would I ask you to meet me here only to tell you that you did something wrong, your choice of designation?"

You shrugged, a lame attempt at disarming the tension between them. (Or, _whatever_ this odd sensation in your spark was. _Nope - it hadn't worked_.)

"Because you didn't want to embarrass me in front of my friends?" you guessed.

He shook his helm. "In either case, that's not why we're here."

"Well, then."

A long period of silence fell between you.

Your spark was strangely heavy, still.

And your faceplates were burning too hotly to dare a look in his direction.

You could really only look at your intertwined fingers - he noticed, and tightened his grasp.

(Now, your servo was fully enveloped by his.)

You giggled, a sound made louder in the nervous silence that had settled over the two of you. Drift turned his helm to look at you, and _this_ close up, you could see something in his optics that you had always thought was a figment of your imagination.

("Drift, what are you looking at?" Rodimus had once asked, confusion clear in his faceplates. He couldn't understand why Drift was having such a hard time concentrating. What he was saying - it was _absolutely fascinating_!

"Nothing, Rodimus. Sorry about that. Please continue." He had smiled, a private smile meant only for you, and you, standing across the room with Candid, had tried not to laugh.)

You scooted closer, as discreet about it as possible, and so did he (equally as discreetly). You didn't look at him, but you smiled.

(And he couldn't keep his optics off of you.)

The stars winked at you, right into your optics. And then, he spoke:

"What are you thinking about?"

"You."

You clapped both servos over your lip components, giggling in a fit of sheepish embarrassment. "Er - I meant - um, _nothing really_."

He didn't push the subject. Instead, he gave you a smile of his own, and then, he burst into laughter. And you couldn't help it when he did that - his moods had _always_ been contagious. You started to laugh, too, so much so that you slipped out of his grasp (leaning too far forward) and found yourself gulping mouthfuls of oil.

Quicker than you could realize you were drowning, you were gasping for air on the platform, and you were looking into those blue, blue optics - seeing the worry in them - and bursting into laughter, again.

You couldn't help yourself - you knew it was wrong to laugh, _especially now_ , when he was so scared, but you found it _so funny_ that you had been _so starstruck_ by Drift that you had nearly **_died_**.

( _Gallows humor_ , Candid called it.)

He pulled you close, enveloping you in his arms until your laughter had subsided into hiccupping lapses in breath. "The reason I asked you here was to talk, your choice of designation. It's so hard to find time alone with you."

You agreed, wordlessly, still gasping for breath, and then you both fell back, side-by-side, onto the platform (helms towards the sea-of-oil), optics facing the stars, voices rising and falling in laughter and whispers.

And you stayed like that, all night long, your fingers occasionally finding one another’s only to retreat as quickly as they had come. Your optics met in-between every other word, and that's when you realized that you had a problem.

You were falling in love with Drift.

And he was bringing up your hopes by acting as if he felt the same way.

(Boy, did you _hope_ he did.)

(But that would be _too good_ to be true.)

________________________________________________________________________

"Your choice of designation?"

One of Swerve's optical ridges was quirked, and his helm was tilted.

He wasn't smiling - worried about you, no doubt.

"Oh, um - what?" You blinked, optical ridges furrowing as you focused your gaze on the mech standing before you (instead of letting your thoughts loop through stars in regards to _another_ ). "Sorry, what was that?"

He sighed, a theatric display of exasperation.

"I asked you if you wanted a refill."

"Nope. I'm good," you beamed at him, and he nodded his helm, optics narrowed in suspicion. "No, _really_! **_Really_** , Swerve! I'm just peachy keen!"

"Peachy... _peachy keen_?"

He blinked, slowly, and then shrugged his shoulderplates.

"Well, just remember - _I asked_."

"Yeah, yeah," you shooed him away, and off he went, pouting and huffing as he served Getaway the fifth drink in a row that night. Whirl, beside him, was laughing, loud, boisterous, pouring a drink over Resolve's helm.

(Who, in turn, elbowed Whirl in the chasis with a grimace.)

Getaway’s optics didn’t linger on you, anymore, not like they used to.

And you? For the first time in _a long time_ , it didn't hurt so much, anymore, to realize that you had loved and lost – _once again_. As if on cue, Getaway turned his helm, and your optics met.

He raised a single servo, waving it in your general direction. (A greeting.)

You returned the gesture with a smile and a wave of your own servo.

(Resolve noticed this, but said nothing. He only smiled, and then promptly turned to scold Whirl for punching Ten too hard.)

(Whirl, in turn, picked up the tiny 'bot, whose legs kicked in frustration, and laughed as he held him too high up for his feet to reach the floor.)

(And this was when Getaway intervened by betting, loudly, that Whirl couldn't down three cubes of the Churning Tanks in under a minute.)

( _Even you could do that._ )

(Resolve thanked Getaway with a squeeze of the taller mech's servo.)

(Everyone was wondering _if_ , and _when_ , the two of them were ever planning to come right out and confess ( _to each other_ ) about their feelings for one another.)

(You were willing to bet your entire (non-existent) allowance that it wouldn’t happen for a long, _long_ time. Resolve was a private, reserved ‘bot, and Getaway _even more_ of a “private” person with his own personal affairs.)

( _From babysitter to lover. Way to go, Resolve. Here’s to hoping that you can help him without hurting yourself._ )

You toasted, on your own, to such a hopeful wish. (And hoped you hadn’t jinxed it.)

"Your choice of designation?" That would be Candid, probably worrying about you, again, for the eightieth time that night. (Maybe that was an exaggeration.) "Are you alright?"

(And you hit the nail right on the head.)

"I'm _fine_! Honestly! Why does everyone keep asking?" you mumbled the last part.

Candid gave you a long look, one of exasperation. "I'm going to go recharge for the night. You be careful and stay out of trouble; _understood_?"

"Aye, aye, cap'ain." You mock-saluted the other femme, whom shoved your shoulderplate away in response. You burst into laughter, giving your friend an affectionate squeeze of the servo, in reassurance. "If anything happens, I promise I will comm you. Now, go and 'recharge'." (You still didn't believe that Candid didn't take every chance she got to go and hold hands with First Aid.)

(You even emphasized your suspicion with air quotes.)

Candid gave you one last, playfully-irritated look, and then she was gone.

(Way too quickly _not_ to be excited about seeing a certain nurse-turned-doctor.)

Right when you were beginning to feel a little left out of all the fun, you received a _ping_ on your messenger. It was Drift (!!). Without meaning to, you felt your lip components lifting into a smile, one that was difficult to resist giving into.

_Would it be too much to ask to meet up tonight?_

Did he even need to ask?

 _Oil reservoir?_ You waited (im)patiently for his response.

 _Yes._ A pause, then, _See you there, dearest one._

________________________________________________________________________

You made it in record time, expression lit up by your excitement.

And there he was. Back turned, helm lifted, faceplates lit by the light of the stars. Servo resting on the handle of his blade as he held it up to optic-level. He seemed to be meditating, or perhaps stretching. (Who knew?)

It was a precious-enough sight that you just _had_ to stop and watch.

You didn't want him to stop, didn't want to shatter the sensation that was tensing up the air around him. His optics were closed. You noticed because he turned, slowly, humming, seemingly deep-in-concentration.

You nearly sighed, optics filled with stars as you watched his body move.

He was dancing. _That's_ what he was doing. **_Dancing_**.

(He just didn't know it.)

You took a step backward, into the shadows, and held up your messenger, grin lifting your lip components as you typed in a message. Short and sweet.

_Nice moves._

His servo lowered, and his optics opened to read the message.

The smile was unmistakable.

Then, his optics raised, searching the room around him, and you came out of the shadows with a laugh on your glossa. "You're losing your touch, old man."

"Am I?" he sheathed his blade, and then he took a step towards you. You took another one towards _him_. He smiled, a half-nervous, half-beckoning gesture.

You could feel his nervousness as if it was your own (because it was also what caused _your_ spark to pulse so loudly in your audial receptors). "Yep."

You popped the 'p'.

(And would never be able to re-enact that sound, again.)

"Oh, so I see." He took your servo once you were close enough, and then you both took your respective seats on the edge of the platform. "Be careful - it would be unfortunate if you fell. _Again_."

"Wouldn't dream of it. You nearly cried the last time."

You were teasing. (Something you did _all-too-well_.)

"Did not."

And he was playing along. (Something he did _all-too-well_.)

"So, will it be another night of the usual?"

"Actually, I had an idea."

"Did you?"

You barely spoke the last word before his lip components met yours in a kiss.

A kiss so tender you nearly swooned in his embrace.

(And probably would have, had it been under any other circumstances.)

Your fingers intertwined, like so many other times before, except this time, you kissed for longer than just a klik. (And this time, it wasn't a "mistake".)

"How long have you been waiting to do that?" you managed to ask, tone still teasing when you separated. He grinned, optics soft as his fingers left yours, only to cup your faceplates and pull you in close, again.

"Since the night we met."

Your lip components met, again, and again, and again.

("My wish come true," you said with a grin.

His optics glittered blue to your optic color of choice, and he said, very softly,

"And mine.")

________________________________________________________________________

You were startled by a familiar warmth.

You turned your helm, and were promptly shocked to find that you _hadn't_ just been imagining it. He _had_ taken your servo - _IN PUBLIC!_

You had been walking together to go fuel up in the morning, optics making contact every few kliks, smiles sharing nothing but private messages between one another, and then, right when the two of you had been passing by Rodimus and Ambus, Drift's fingers had met yours, and you had fallen into your (new) habit so quickly that you hadn't quite realized what you were doing until you observed that Rodimus was _gawking_ at you.

"Drift!" you whisper-yelled, and he only gave you what registered as a smug look.

"Yes, dearest one?"

You covered your mouth with your other servo, bursting into giggles.

"Nothing. Nothing at all."

Instead of pulling away (like you once _might_ have, years ago), you squeezed his servo, and he mimicked the gesture in return.

("Since when has **_that_** been going on?" asked Rodimus.

Ambus could only shrug, almost helplessly, in return.)

________________________________________________________________________

**~ Act of Disclosure ~**

Your chin was propped up on his chasis, legs intertwined with his as your fingertips traced his Autobot badge (your other servo asleep in his), the light of a particularly bright star hanging low above you like smoke - and that was when he told you the story about Gasket.

He struggled to talk about the Dead End, and why Gasket mattered so much to him, and about what the Autobot law enforcement pushed him to do, but you lay still, your optics watching his own, and didn't move to stop him.

When he was done, when his cheekplates were wet with coolant, optics heavy with shame and guilt, frame wracked with self-disgust, you leaned in close and you laid a kiss against his optical lids (both of them) before pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of his lip components.

Then, you laid your cheekplate down against his spark-casing, letting the pulsing soothe your own spark, and said the only three words you _knew_ he needed to hear (after all this time - the **_only_** thing he **_ever_** needed to hear):

"I forgive you."

________________________________________________________________________

You sat around thinking and fretting about it all day.

Drift had bared his spark to you, had _trusted_ you, and yet - and yet, he didn't know _anything_ about you. About what you had done (or _hadn’t_ ). About who you had betrayed.

And you didn't know how to tell him without disillusioning him.

You didn't know if he would still look at you so tenderly if he knew what a liar and a traitor and a selfish coward you were. He thought you were _brave_ , and _pure of spark_.

(Or so, you could only _assume_ that's what he thought every time he looked at you so softly.)

He needed to know.

You needed to say it.

Even if you wanted to _die_ at the mere _thought_ of allowing those secrets to escape the confines of your spark. You waved a servo at Swerve.

He approached with a grin and a question on his glossa:

"What can I get ya?"

"Wire Wrangler."

He raised a single optical ridge. "Trying to steel your nerves?"

"Yep."

He handed you a cube, filled to the brim with a purple liquid.

(An _aesthetically-pleasing_ liquid.)

"On second thought? Hand me two more of the same."

________________________________________________________________________

"Your choice of designation?" came a voice from your right.

You turned in your seat, smile automatic in your daze.

"Oh, Drift!" you slurred out. "Just the 'bot I was lookin' for!"

He exchanged a look with Swerve (whom had called him over once he began to feel worried about you). "Thank you, Swerve. I'll take it from here."

Swerve had been gone for (maybe) two kliks before Drift sighed and took a seat beside you in the booth. You leaned against him, almost involuntarily, helm against his shoulderplate, and closed your optics, your spark soothed by his humming, and by the feeling of his fingertips gently tracing your cheekplates.

"I think I love you," you were sure you said.

"I know," you were sure you heard him respond.

(And completely missed: "And I you, dearest one.")

________________________________________________________________________

The door gave you no resistance.

Drift turned, alarmed, and you met his gaze with one of firm resolve.

(You hoped; because you were _fragging terrified_.)

"Sit down. I have something to tell you. Something I think you deserve to know."

He rose a single optical ridge, but did exactly as you had asked.

("We'll have to continue this, later, Rodimus. My apologies."

The voice on the other side of the link sighed, but conceded.)

"I am the biggest coward you will probably ever meet in your entire life."

Now that it was out in the open, you were suddenly very afraid.

(Why did you have to spit it out like **_that_**?)

(Couldn't you have been more _poised_ about it?)

( _I'm afraid that I do not always exercise dignity in the face of danger._ )

(There was _no way_ you could say all that without bursting into giggles.)

"What?" his expression scrunched into confusion.

"I'm a _coward_ , Drift. I ran away from the Autobranding ceremony. I mean, I never even showed up. I just - I just _bailed_. I was so terrified I actually hopped onto the nearest ship out of Cybertron and never even thought about turning back."

There was a moment of silence, and then, he beckoned you forward.

Trembling, you took a step towards him, only for him to envelop you into his arms and press kisses against your faceplates. "It's alright, your choice of designation. It's alright to be afraid. I am always terrified, myself. Terrified that one day the DJD will find me. Terrified that Deadlock isn't really dead. Terrified that I'll hurt you, or _lose_ you. But do you know what keeps _me_ going – what keeps _me_ from running away?"

"What?" your voice was small.

"The people around me who count on me to keep going. _Like you_. And just like I need you to stay by _my_ side, I will never leave _yours_."

"Are you sure?"

"The day I leave your side is the day I am no longer worthy of your love, dearest one." His words brought coolant to your optics (because you wanted to believe him, or because no one had ever spoken such a sweet lie to you before?), and you were reaching up for his faceplates, pressing your lip components against his.

He was pressing kisses along the wiring in your throat when you realized that this was escalating much farther than the two of you had ever gone before ( _together_ – you were no untouched saint). And you were tracing your fingertips along his Autobot badge when you realized that you didn't want him to let you go.

"Your choice of designation?" he was breathing heavily, optics wide and very, very blue.

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Then, neither am I."

That was all the sign the two of you needed.

He pressed a kiss against your spark casing, and he was running his fingers along your heated metal, when you noticed that neither of you had closed the door to Drift’s habsuite.

You chanced a glance back, and noticed that it had ( _mysteriously_ ) closed on its own.

(Ambus had caught the two of you kissing and had closed the door for you.)

(To spare anyone the sight of what he was sure was going to be disturbing for any unprepared optics.)

Drift was pushing you back onto his berth, discarding his blades, and you were helping him place them aside so that they wouldn't get in the way. His optics were alight with tenderness and you couldn't get enough of his kisses, of his touch. "Drift," you breathed out against his lip components, and he responded with a nip of the denta across your bottom lip.

Then, his silver was melting against yours, blue of your edges purple in light of his red-hot metal, and he was kissing you so perfectly that you couldn't believe that the two of you had waited all of your lives for this one truth.

It didn't take long to get you panting and arching into his touch, his kisses igniting liquid flames along your wiring, and before you knew it, he was looming above you, blue optics displaying a very different emotion than any you had ever seen.

 _Arousal_ , intense and true.

You **_adored_** whenever he whispered your designation like that, as if it were a prayer to Primus, himself. (And it probably was. He had prayed for _less_.)

"May I?" he breathed out against your throat, the heat enough to make your optical lenses fog up. His fingers were almost _courteous_ in their pursuit, pressing against the cover of your valve, alternating between pushing and rubbing.

You nodded your helm, whimpering out a _yes_.

(Or maybe you had only imagined it.)

He understood, and slid open the slim piece of metal, slipping a single finger past your exterior nodes. Your calipers tightened around him, and he laughed, low in his chasis, a very intimate sound meant for no one's audial receptors but your own.

Then, he was shifting, and his kisses were trailing lower, and lower, and -

"Ah!"

You arched up into his touch as his kisses covered along the insides of your thighs, fingers working to slowly, _slowly_ , spread your legs so as to give him easier access to your valve.

(He had no intention of playing with your spike - _yet_.)

His fingers spread the gathering of exterior nodes along one of the outer folds of your valve, and, after a sparing kiss to the sensitive clusters of wires (you whimpered in response), his glossa came out to play.

With that wonderful combination of his glossa twisting around each of your nodes, fingers rubbing along each neglected one before its own turn, and that infernal humming (he sang even when he was doing something this - this _perverted_!) - well, it was no wonder that you came undone so quickly.

"Drift -!" you cried out, overlord rendering your optics sightless for a few kliks. When you came back down to reality, Drift was cleaning your valve up - _with his glossa_. (And you came undone, again. _Really?_ What was he _trying_ to do? Put you into stasis lock? _What a strange old man._ (Of course, you meant this _very affectionately_.))

He laid kisses along your heated metal until his lip components met yours, and you tasted yourself in his kiss, but you didn't even care. You held him close, legs wrapped around his waist, and then, you were playing with his own port covering.

He breathed out, unevenly, but he didn't resist your advances for long.

(Didn't try too hard, if anyone asked you.)

(Of course, _no one had_.)

It slid to the side, and your fingers made contact with his fully-pressurized spike. He stilled for a klik, and then, he was pressing kisses to the curve of your audial receptor, fingers exploring the contours of your thighs as you sighed out and pressed a gentle kiss to his shoulderplate.

"Your choice of designation -?" his optics met yours, then, bluer than Engex.

Warm, trusting, tender. Your fingers ran along the red of his shoulderplates, catching on the wheels embedded into his arms. Spinning them lazily seemed to have an endearing effect - he giggled, and then burst into laughter.

"Oh, so you're ticklish, there, huh?" you teased, and he responded with a chaste kiss pressed to your forehelm.

"Always have been."

Your legs tightened around his waist, and then, he was slipping past the rims of your valve, plunging deep into you, and you were gasping for breath against his chasis.

His supple thighs were smooth against your fingertips as you pulled him in closer, mouth opening wide in a cry of pleasure as he began to move with your body, the rhythm so fluid that it felt like Engex pouring down your parched throat.

"Your – your choice of designation," he gasped out, and you only whimpered his designation in response. Your optics met, and he had never looked at you like this before, you swore it (nor had anyone else) - with such **_love_** that you felt the coolant beginning to pool up in your optics long before he noticed them.

He leaned in closer to press his lip components against your moist optics, and you couldn't help giggling at the sensation. "Stop it, Drift," you tried to push him away, weakly, but only succeeded in getting him to push in deeper.

His denta skimmed along your spark-casing as you gasped out, and before long, you were crying out his designation as you came undone for the third time that night.

The rest of said night was a blur.

You had never felt so much pleasure with any one mech in your entire life (no matter how “fun” the others were), nor so much tender affection and desire. The way he touched you was intoxicating, as if his fingertips had been _created_ to bring you to your highest peaks, and his kisses were like sips of fine Horizon Over Iacon (the fanciest drink you had only ever _once_ had a taste of).

And when you finally onlined your optics the next cycle, his servo was still in yours, fingers intertwined as perfectly as your bodies had been hours earlier, and the sight of that badge gracing his beautiful silver chasis in the light of the stars - you didn't know what you had done to deserve Drift, but you weren’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

"I love you," you whispered, when you were sure he couldn't hear.

But you lost your nerve to repeat your ( _damaging_ , Prowl would say ( _and_ _amusing_ , Circuit would add)) words when he opened his optics and looked at you with that wonderful smile of his. _Not yet._ You couldn’t say it, yet. Although you knew it was far too late to crush this feeling in your spark.

________________________________________________________________________

**~ Act of Profference ~**

"Hey, your choice of designation?"

"Yeah?" You lifted your helm, optics adjusting to the bright lights that were infiltrating your senses. (Resisting the urge to wince.)

"I'm just curious - and you don't have to answer - but are you and Drift, well, in a relationship?"

You paused mid-step, turning your helm to look at the Captain ( _co-captain_ ), expression befuddled. "What makes you think that?"

(You couldn't think straight through this pounding in your helm.)

"It could be that you two have taken to servo-holding in public, or it could be that you two sneak little smiles whenever you think nobody's watching, or it could be - "

"Okay, okay, I get it," you threw up both of your servos in mock-defeat, smile playing at your faceplates.

"So," he waved both servos in a _go on_ motion. "Am I right?"

"I," you racked your mind, and then sighed, stopping completely in your tracks. He stopped, too, beside you, expression filled with concern. "I don't know."

"He's a very complicated mech, huh?"

"No, it's not _him_ ," you rubbed at your shoulderplate, expression filled with an indescribable sadness. " _I'm_ the one who makes no sense."

You didn't get a chance to hear whatever Rodimus had to say on the matter, because just then, he received an "urgent call" ("Sorry to leave you like this - are you going to be okay on your own?" Cue a nod from your miserable self.).

He was gone within kliks, and you were left alone with your thoughts.

The worst-possible-case-scenario.

There was a loud ping from your left, and you lowered your helm.

It was a message.

 _Go to the bar and order an Energon Spritzer_.

Befuddled, you checked, and then double-checked, the source code.

It was blocked.

(From the sender.)

That didn't make any sense... who would contact you from _a blocked PHF_?

You shrugged your shoulderplates, and then made your way to the bar.

It wasn't like you had anything _better_ to do.

________________________________________________________________________

"There you go: one Energon Spritzer."

You took the cube, larger than usual, and peered down at it, with its festive little umbrella. ( _Why the umbrella?_ It looked like the one _Jentis_ utilized to celebrate the Summer Solstice.)

Pink edges, red rays like the light of _Jentis_ ' primary star. An orange ferrule.

(Like the eyes of their gods.)

"Swerve?"

"Mhm?"

"How did you know about this?" you gestured to the drink, expression showcasing your bewilderment. "I thought this was a custom special only to _Jentis_."

"The umbrella?" he peered at it, and then, he shrugged.

"Dunno anything about that, really. It was part of the order, so I just used the one I was given." He cleaned up the cube Whirl had finished using, and then left to go get a set of spares from the backroom.

Another klik passed in silence, and then, you shrugged your shoulderplates and, with a smile (more to yourself than to anyone else - you hadn't realized how much you had missed _Jentis_ until now), you took a sip, then another, then another.

And kept drinking until you had finished the cube up.

There was something at the bottom, something that clinked in your mouth.

You spit it out into the palm of your servo - it appeared to be a small, flat disk.

Rubbing the energon away from a blinking red light revealed a message in holo-image:

            _Remember how we met?_

_You sipped energon spritzer an hour before the lighting of the lanterns,_

_And I made small talk with the bartender about nothing in particular._

_I had just recently been exiled from the Lost Light._

_I didn't know what to do - I was lost._

_And then, our optics met across the bar, and you raised your cube to me_

_And toasted to loneliness, with a smile on your face_

_Like it was all a joke, a bad joke. And maybe it was._

_I can still remember how that little umbrella accentuated your optics._

_How you tried to hide behind it when you snorted with laughter._

_And how easy it was to lose that little umbrella in all the drinks we took._

_Together._

_That's how we met - we kept each other company._

_And I like to think that's how we've been ever since._

_But this is only the first chapter, dearest one._

_For this is the moment when I began to love you, without truly realizing it._

_I need you to take this umbrella with you. It's my gift to you._

_And I need you to go to the oil reservoir, and look up to the stars._

_The same ones I think of whenever I think of you,_

_And the same ones that make me think of you when I see them._

There was a bit of coolant in your optics, and you couldn't stop smiling. You must've looked half-glocked. Swerve was giving you a look of deep concern.

"Your choice of designation?"

You laughed aloud, and then, you were up and making your way towards the doors. "I have to go!" you shouted back over your shoulderplates, with a haphazard wave.

Whirl's voice met your audial receptors as the doors were closing behind you:

"Where is _she_ going in such a hurry?"

________________________________________________________________________

The oil reservoir was rather large.

You had almost forgotten how big it was when Drift wasn't there with you.

When it was just the two of you, it was like nothing else mattered.

No amount of space around you, or _between_ you, made much difference when he looked at you with that tenderness you had come to associate with him.

The stars were bright when you looked at them.

In fact, very, _very_ bright.

(Would you be wrong to note that they were almost _brighter_ than you had ever seen them?)

Something about the sight of them struck you as immensely **_odd_**.

Your optics narrowed, and then, it clicked: they were too _organized_.

Not _half_ as random as they usually were.

It took you another klik to discover _why_.

The blackness surrounding the stars was _blacker_ , augmenting the twinkle of each star, and it was in this manner that you realized that the stars spelled out a message. You remembered, then, what Drift had once told you about the walls of the oil reservoir: "They're hardly ever in use, but if someone were to activate them, it could be noted that they are actually very reflective."

The message up on the ceiling was distorted by the glass, difficult to read.

So, you lowered your helm, and stepped closer to the edge of the platform.

And held your breath (if it _could_ be held).

There were paper lanterns floating along the oil's dense surface, delicate mechanisms that they were, unsinking only because of the sheer volume of the nearly-solid oil packed into the reservoir.

The light was flickering in each lantern, but still clearly visible in blue flames.

(Augmented by the chemical atmosphere in the large room.)

            _Pick up the red lantern._

Upon further inspection, there _was_ a lantern hued in red, perched on the platform a few feet to your left (sitting beside an identical, blue lantern). You approached and picked it up, touch gentle, before giving a startled yelp when it began to glow a brighter red hue, floating high up into the air (as if given wings to fly) and erupting into brilliant sparks of red, pink, and orange.

A blue flame ignited along the surface of the oil, burning to a low ember, lighting up each lantern before the flame disappeared. Now, each lantern was glowing brilliantly, like stars in the sky (fitting in a sea of black).

The light cast a strange shadow across the ceiling, and then, you finally saw it: the message "written in the stars". The blackness of the oil and of the room amplified the lights so that the glass no longer distorted his message. And it was the most **_beautiful_** thing you had ever seen, hands-down.

            _Do you remember our first kiss?_ _We met again by the light of the lanterns. And you told me that you didn't know what to wish for. And I asked you what you wanted more than anything else. And then you laughed, and you said, with a smile, another joke: "A decent kiss."_

_And so that's what you wished for. And it took me too long to realize that I had wished for, "A decent smile." And you had already given me that, so many times, so I decided that it was time for me to grant you your wish. It was a year ago. There's no way you could remember unless it was as special a moment to you as it was to me._

_And I know it was. Because when I kissed you, you said it was your wish come true. And I think that was when I realized this was destined to be more than a happy accident. This was written in the fates, you and I. Lost in the stars, I think we finally found each other. And I no longer need to walk alone, or with shame in my spark. In your optics, I've seen the best version of myself. This has only ever happened once before: Wing._

_He taught me to seek out salvation instead of condemning it. And **you** \- you reminded me of this when I needed it most – when I needed **you** most. I will never love you less than I do, now, and with every moment that passes, I feel my love for you grow._

_Take the blue lantern, dearest one, and go to the place where we have spent countless cycles dancing together._

You felt your optics filling with coolant for the second time that cycle, but instead of crying like you wanted to, you picked up the blue lantern and carefully laid the tiny umbrella inside, in the hollow space where a wick should have been. Then, you closed the tiny door.

And you were off, with only a second look back at the message glowing on the ceiling of the oil reservoir. (And a haphazard thought thrown about asking Drift whether anyone else would see his _special message_.)

________________________________________________________________________

"Your choice of designation!"

"Oh – _hey_ , Tailgate!"

You kneeled down to place a chaste kiss against his visor, and he lit up considerably, returning the gesture with a squeeze of your servo.

Cyclonus, standing beside him, gave you a look that read, _Touchy, aren't you?_

Instead of feeling the least bit discouraged (like you _normally_ would – boy, he _sure_ knew how to _scare_ a femme), you giggled and leaned toward him, on the edges of your peds, to place a kiss against _his_ cheekplate, as well.

"Don't be so **_grumpy_** , Cyclonus! The stars are _shining_ – we’re **_well_** on our way to finding the Knights of Cybertron, and love is alive!"

That being said, you didn't stick around to explain yourself, merely blowing both mechs a kiss as you went along on your way, lantern swinging from the tips of your fingertips as you went.

(Tailgate beamed up at Cyclonus as he watched you go.

"See? I told you! She's **_definitely_** in love!"

"As fascinating as that is..."

"Oh, _hush_ , Cyclonus! We **_both_** know that love is something to be celebrated!"

He beamed at Cyclonus, who didn’t hesitate for longer than _a_ _single klik_ before taking the tiny servo he was offered into his own.)

________________________________________________________________________

The door before you opened slowly, and you peered in and about.

This room was marked on the blueprints of the _Event Horizon_ (the _U1_ 's unofficial name), something not many ‘bots here knew about or had been given enough time to discover.

Drift had found it almost as soon as he had boarded the _Lost Light_ so long ago.

He had cleaned it up, set it up as a place of comfort and solitude, of safety - a _haven_. He meditated, prayed, and trained here. He watched videos about home, about Cybertron, and thought about Wing, and Gasket, and he sometimes even shed coolant here.

It hadn't been long before Drift had introduced you to this place.

You **_loved_** it. The star’s lights shone directly through the glass; and the faded posters, the tables set up near the back - they were all what gave this room away as the old _Dining Under the Stars_ spot - a couples’ restaurant that had been set up by Moondancer and Blacklight (the old crew's resident _Rewind and Chromedome_ ).

You had never been invited here to dine when you’d been a member of the old crew, but now, you and Drift practically _owned_ the spot. It was your little shelter from the ugliness of the universe, it was where the two of you could forget about Deadlock and the Justice Division, where you could pretend the war never began in the first place, where you could play at living in a utopia.

(And here, together, in this place, you **_did_**.)

Drift was so much _gentler_ than anyone ever gave him credit for, and he could be so romantic and lovely, the way he held your servo and didn't feel ashamed about telling you all of his dirty little secrets. With him, you weren’t  your choice of designation the coward, or your choice of designation the could-be-Autobot, or your choice of designation the fool. No, with him, you were just your choice of designation.

This was where he had told you about the Dead End, and about Wing, and about Megatron and Gasket and everything he had ever done wrong, or ever tried to fix. This was where he had **_enamored_** you, completely and unwittingly.

The room was cleared out, today. The only thing there was a radio, sitting in the middle of the room, with a holo-message projected above it.

_Dance as you always do._

You supposed that was your cue to play the radio.

("Accidentally In Love", as sung by the Counting Crows. An organic love song from the far-away corner of the universe - _Earth_. It was one of your personal favorites. You had shown it to Drift maybe a **_dozen_** times, the first time being in this very room. The two of you had danced to it, once or twice. Maybe a **_dozen_** times, too.)

And as always, you couldn't help swaying, and then spinning a little, and before you knew it, you were laughing and dancing like you always did. Drift wasn't there with you, but you didn't feel **_alone_**. You felt as if he was watching you, maybe _dancing_ with you. The same joy was still in your spark - you could nearly _feel_ his touch on your metal, if you closed your optics and hummed and pretended.

You only realized that something was off when you felt a certain, unfamiliar heat underneath your peds. You peered down, optics wide, and found that the panel of metal beneath you was _glowing_.

Puzzled, you stepped back, and back, and back, until you were standing beside the radio again. The floor around this single panel was lit, _completely_ , and there were figures in Neocybex floating around you.

 ** _Holo-panels!_** Those were _uber_ -expensive! (How had he managed to get his servos on those? And to replace them so quickly? _He must've spent a lot of time planning this out..._ )

You stepped back, one more, and then, the song ended, leaving you in silence.

The message began to converge, making it much easier to read.

Some letters were written out in English, the primary language of Earth - like in your favorite love song. You could tell he had really taken his time with this.

_I close my optics and I recall how you move, dearest one, but still_

_I wish I were there to see it for myself._

_We danced together our first time at that party on Jentis._

_And we've been dancing together ever since._

_I had always thought you moved beautifully, and that hasn't changed._

_When you dance, I think of the sunset over Cybertron,_

_And of the way its rays skim across the wings of fliers_

_And shine right into my optics._

_And here, in this very room, I told you about who I was_

_And you accepted me, and forgave a sin you never quite understood_

_My love for you never ceases to amaze me, and I think I am not alone_

_When I say that love is truly alive because your lips have touched mine._

_For the last time, I ask you to trust me, your choice of designation._

_Take the disc in this radio, and meet me where we first made love._

_\- Drift_

You wasted no time in doing just that. Your spark was swooning, now, at the mere _thought_ of his words. You wanted to kiss him so hard that he saw the same stars you saw when you thought of his gentle laugh and equally soft touch.

Your fingers cradling the disc, you left the room, and closed the door, as quietly as possible. Then, you were well on your way, a smile lifting your lip components.

A jingle in your step, a need to dance that nearly broke your composure more than once when you passed by each window. Everyone you passed by gave you a mixture of puzzled and amused looks.

You only grinned at each of them, and occasionally paused to kiss their cheekplates, or to make a joke, or to twirl around in a show of good grace (which always earned, at the very least, a smile).

(Megatron, himself, seemed beside himself with mirth.

His red optics lifted in a crinkling smile, while Ravage laughed low in his throat.)

Eventually, your spark was pulsing nervously, jolting every time you paused in your steps to admire the stars and to wonder about what it could be that Drift wanted to say.

(And why it had taken all of **_this_** to lead up to it.)

Instead of wondering about it for hours, you picked up the pace.

And found yourself grinning like a fool at the mere thought of seeing him.

(And you wondered if this was love.)

(And finally knew: **_yes, it was_**.)

________________________________________________________________________

**~ Act of Devotion ~**

You steeled your nerves with a deep intake of breath, and then, you pushed open the door to Drift's habsuite. And there he was, at last.

Kneeling before you, with both servos raised. There lay a very familiar blade, flat across both palms, hilt pointing to the left and bladed tip to the right.

There was a peculiar spark of light, blue in shade, coming from the nexus on the hilt. It was painful to look at, with your sensitive optics, but the sparks were crackling so often that your optics adjusted to the sight.

You almost couldn't understand what you were seeing.

"Drift?"

He peered up, then, past the blade of his greatest weapon.

( _A medium of his faith_ , he had once described it as.)

"I have nothing to give you, your choice of designation, that could _possibly_ make up for all that you have done for me. Your existence has brightened my own. You are like a shooting star in this black sky that my life has been insofar. Your touch is what makes me feel alive, and your kiss keeps my shame at bay. Your hope in me is what has re-ignited my drive for redemption and justice. Your faith, dearest one, is my whole world. I have heard others mourn the loss of Cybertron, of the great wonder and beauty that she is, but without you by my side, its beauty means **_nothing_** to me. I would have you before I have Cybertron returned to its former glory. For you, I would face perdition, and accept whatever fate has in store for a sinner like myself. And to you, as is the only acceptable gift of my love, I give my spark, my essence, everything that I am, and everything I will ever come to be. If you accept me as I am, and as I have been, as I will be - if you accept the sinner that I have been and will always be - if you accept my spark, flawed as it is, I need to know **_for certain_** that you are _willing_ to share your life force with mine. If you love me as much as I will _always_ love you, please, dearest one, take hold of the hilt of my blade, as our conjoined faiths will prove to me a more powerful guide than anything else I have known or felt."

You took a staggering step forward, optics filled with unshed coolant, and your servo fell across the hilt of his blade. You didn't even think about the implication - didn't stop to consider what this could mean, didn't stop to think about asking whether he was certain he wanted this (wanted _you_ ) - and you didn't have enough time to regret your decision (even if you had _wanted_ to), because at that moment, the energy siphoning from his spark through the blade clashed with yours.

Your faith had never felt so large, never so _pure_ , never in just one person, never in just one _feeling_ \- at that moment, your love filled your spark to the brim and poured out through your circuitry, bleeding into your EM field and mingling with his, dripping down from your optics, down your cheekplates. The light from the blade flashed so bright, so **_impossibly_** bright (and your optics hurt almost as much as your spark did), and then, you were collapsing into a sea of black.

You heard his voice calling out your designation, and your vision swam back into focus slowly, and you caught sight of the blade set aside on the floor of his habsuite, and he was kissing you, then, **_so desperately_** , much _rawer_ than he ever had before.

And you didn't know where you ended and he began. The blue light that was crackling from the blade still sparked along his body, igniting his touch so that you were crying out his designation long before he had pulled you into his embrace.

"I love you," you realized it was _you_ who kept repeating it, over and over.

Like you didn't know what else to say.

(And maybe you **_didn't_**.)

He pressed kisses to your faceplates, to your throat, to your wrists, to the palms of your servos, and then, he was kissing you, again, and your spark-chamber hurt so much, _burning_ , _burning_ -

And you could suddenly hear his own love for you echoed as clearly as his words in your processor, in your body, rushing through you like liquid flames. His faith was as powerful as his kiss, and it was bleeding into your own spark like a transfusion of energon. You gasped out for air, and grasped him closer, close enough to _feel_ his spark pulsing in your processor.

You weren’t sure if he had spoken, or if you could suddenly understand his spark without a translator or medium of sorts: _I love you, dearest one. I always will._

"So long as I shall live," you sobbed into his lip components, and for the first time in your _pathetic_ , _miserable_ , _disappointing_ life, you didn't second-guess yourself. You couldn't hear the spite in your own processor, drowned out by your own assured **_love_** and **_desire_** and **_adoration_**.

And his grin was _magnificent_ , almost as _beautiful_ as those blue optics piercing you with so much love. "So long as I shall live," he echoed, words softer than his touch. "My dearest one, so long as I shall live."


	7. Of Desires and Longings || Transformers: Prime || Bumblebee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You. Bumblebee's greatest mystery in life, and one of his many unresolved conflicts. 
> 
> It's impure, the things he thinks about you, especially after having been betrayed by you in a manner that should be unforgivable. But sometimes, we all desire most what is denied to us - and not even you, Nymphomaniac Extraordinaire, are an exception to this rule.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, I think it's time I revealed something.
> 
> All of these characters have their own personalities. You fill in, as the reader, with a pre-destined history and future.
> 
> Sorry if that bursts your bubbles, but it's just a lot easier to get into people's heads that way.
> 
> Enjoy being a fucked-up nymphomaniac.
> 
> Also, I think it's important to note that the last "reader" (x Bumblebee piece for TF: Prime) was a character named "Nebula", who is mentioned here. We are going at this from a new angle to represent "Whiplash", whom you've already heard of (if you've been paying attention to the plot, lol). 
> 
> This is like a follow-up, last-touch piece to wrap up everything that's happened with Bumblebee, the Decepticons (on Whiplash's end), etc... 
> 
> Also, whenever I say "habits", I'm actually insinuating kinks. (lol. I ain't gonna judge. It's a no-kink-shaming zone.)

**"We always long for the forbidden things, and desire what is denied us."**

\- Francois Rabelais

The sun was far too hot against his helm, dizzying him, making it difficult to see correctly through the hazy film of dust and dirt rising from his pedes. The young scout couldn't recollect how he had gotten outside, in the first place, or _why_ he'd gone, especially considering that he remembered being told, _quite clearly_ , that it wasn't safe to wander away from the base for the time being.

But there you go. Delirium made his processor swim. He really, _really_ , couldn't remember why he was here, or how he had gotten so far from the base so quickly. Thing was - and it was something odd to note to oneself with such tranquility (if it could even be called that) - he couldn't find it within himself to worry about the fact that his comm link was bugging out, or that he couldn't reach anyone back at base no matter how hard he tried or how he turned and turned in this endless sandy prison of his.

_Was he dreaming? Was this a nightmare?_

Then, just as the panic began to settle in, there came a voice, one he hadn't heard in over five vorns. One he never thought he would hear again. _Yours_.

"Well, aren't you just a bit far from home?"

He turned, raising a servo to block out the infernal sun in his weakening optics.

Your figure came into view, shrouded in shadows from the boulders of the canyons. No one else in sight. It was just the two of you. Why did your voice sound so _familiar_?

It couldn't _really_ be you, could it? No, _no_ , he'd witnessed it, seen you die with his own two optics. But still, he asked. (Or, well, asked in the only way he _could_.)

_ Your choice of designation _ _?_

"Bumblebee." It was a whisper, directly into his left audial processor, a _word_ , normally so sincere - he'd never heard it said quite that way. And how did you get there so fast?

He turned his helm, seeing that, up this close, yeah, it really _was_ you.

His old friend - the one he thought he'd lost.

_ Your choice of _ _- your choice of designation, I thought - my friend -_

He was at a loss for words (if he'd ever be able to have words to _be_ at a loss of, again).

"Your friend," it was a purr, now, your words. He felt the barest sliver of a touch across the mark branded into his chasis, and normally, what would bring about comfort, the servo of a friend, brought him a deep sense of longing.

He figured it was because he'd missed being able to be this close to you, in person.

(What **_else_** could it possibly be?)

_Yeah._

He echoed, uncertain.

Just what exactly were you using his own words for?

"Is that what we are, Bee? _Friends_?"

He allowed himself to whir in confusion, but then his optics finally cleared up from the dust.

He saw the mark, branded clearly along the curve of your rotator cuff, and felt his spark fall from its chamber to his pedes. (Metaphorically speaking, of course.)

And then he felt the dread, the need to offline his optics, to not see.

 _No_ , _no_ , _no_ , this was all wrong.

There was a pressure, _soft_ , that compelled him to turn his helm upwards, to keep his optics from shuttering. He looked into your red, red optics, stared into the evidence that whatever he _thought_ he knew about you - it was gone. Crushed.

Wrong. Defiled. Was it ever there? How much had he ever _really_ known about you, anyway? _I don't know who you are._

It couldn't have been a truer statement.

He expected to see pain blossom in your optics, expected some sign of remorse, but all he received was a curve of your lip components, one that _worried_ him. A smile. A devious one. The same one you used to give him every-time you charged together into an ambush without clearance.

Had you **_always_** been a Decepticon? Always been a _liar_?

(He’d heard _all about_ moles. They had one in the Decepticon Justice Division, after all.)

But no – it hurt too much to breathe, to think about that. He refused to admit that it was possible.

It _couldn_ _’_ _t_ be…

"I wouldn't say _that_ , Bee," came your voice once more, something _darker_ about it that he couldn't quite place. He felt like he had seen this before, but couldn't place it. Why?

(What was going on?)

 _So, what now? You laugh at me, call in your friends, your_ **real** _friends, and you tie me up, use that whip you love so much to reduce me to the nothing I feel knowing I let you **lie** to me all this time? What's it gonna be,  your choice of designation? Chains? I know just how much you **love** your power play, you sick slagger._

He saw your pink glossa slide a clear path across the lip components that housed them, felt something like discomfort starting up deep inside him. _Discomfort_ , mostly because he couldn't understand the way his hatred, his pain, was suddenly dying on his own glossa, just by watching that one movement.

That _one_ movement, that could only mean _one_ thing.

He had said whatever he’d wanted, spat out angry words, without thinking, without _remembering_ who you were. You hadn't been _just_ his friend. Once, you’d been **_much more_**. And he seemed to have forgotten all about what _really_ made you come alive.

He felt his faceplates beginning to heat up, thinking back over his own words, realizing what it sounded like. There was another fleeting touch, this time lingering, your fingertips pressing against the fold of his door-wings.

A noise left him, one he felt ashamed to have released as soon as he did, one he felt astonished to realize only made the heat of the desert seem hotter, suddenly.

"Tsk, tsk, little scout. Taunting the enemy when you're so far from home... Oh, _dear_ , what would your friends do if you came crawling back home, unable to explain why you couldn't stand, but not because you were unhurt, no, _no_ , but because," there was a flicker of your cool glossa against the heating wires weaving through the sides of his ruined throat, "you were the one who had _begged_ for the pain."

_Beg - beg for the pain? Why would I -_

His frequencies, usually so reliable, couldn't find the right tune. The right notch. He glitched out, a crackle of his ruined voice box, because the realization of what you were threatening, _offering_ , to him - it didn't sound like such a bad idea.

It wouldn't be the first time the two of you done something like this. Something so _risky_ , something so _painful_ it bordered on **_euphoria_**. Memories plagued him. The ghost of your sharp talons scratching your initials into the panel over his interfacing equipment, the memory of your designation falling from his lip components like a prayer, a moan of pain, the light of pleasure in your optics as you stood over the younger scout, the echo of the way his own name sounded on your sinfully delightful glossa (that just _knew_ how to do things it shouldn't).

And suddenly, he couldn't say no. Couldn't bear the thought of rejecting your offer. Because even if you (his friend ( _his lover?_ )) had betrayed him, even if you should be dead, **_this_** is what he wanted most. The desire had never quite been sated, the need for pain, and Nebula (bless her spark, he loved her so) had always understood that because she loved him, and he loved her, she couldn't bring him the pain he wanted.

But _you_ could.

And he needed to feel **_something_** , something to distract him from the agony in his spark.

Pain canceled out pain, he remembered (from your own whispers).

"You tell me," your red optics met his, your sultry tone of voice beckoning, your coy look making it _impossible_ to turn away. (If he had **_wanted_** to.)

_Interfacing isn't the answer to everything -_

This was a weak defense, he knew.

Your red optics, ruby, crowned in shadows, drew him forth, like the whispers of the serpent to Eve, beckoning her to the apple. He felt his own defenses fighting against the need to power down his cannons, saw the flicker of your devious optics to the gunmetal in his servos.

And then you did it.

You drew your thin fingers across wires along the scout's outstretched arms, the scout shuddered once, _only once_ , and then, somehow, _impossibly_ , one touch to the curve of his cannons had them powering down in no time. In fact, his cannons just _transformed_ back, and he could feel his own servos again, his fingers clenching automatically.

(How had you known to do that?)

(How did you _always_ know _just_ how to control Bumblebee's body like that?)

But you weren’t done. You lowered your fingers along the metal, quickly heating from the subtle touches, anticipating what was to come. You met his own clenched fingers, coaxing them to open, and then you were raising those same fingers in yours, splaying both of Bumblebee's servos out, fingers loose.

You came closer then, slid your glossa, very daringly, across the symbol etched into his chasis. Never had he felt so _defiled_ before. That was the mark of his honor, his belief in the Prime, a pure thing to him - and he wanted you to do it again. Had felt a tremor that went all the way across from his backstruts down to his pedes.

It was a slow, sensual kiss of your lips to his metal. Your glossa dipped below the chinks in Bee's armor, and it took all of his self-control not to flinch back, knowing how close you, _the enemy_ , were to his spark chamber.

"Interfacing isn't the answer," came your coquettish response, "it's the question. And what is _your_ answer, my sweet honey-bee?"

He couldn't _remember_ saying yes, but he knew that whatever came out of his throat, or his vocal transreceiver, or _who even knows, anymore_ , must have been what he wanted to scream at that very moment.

_Yes. Yes, yes, yes!_

He needed the pain. He needed the pleasure. He needed both, and he needed you to give it to him. There was a coolness against the ever-present pain in his vocal receptors, and he tilted back his helm, feeling you slide your cool glossa along the ruined receptors, the torn wires, the static from the friction, the burning that accompanied the unexpected pressure, and he could only whine pathetically.

Then, you took hold of his mouth guard, tearing it off with a force he couldn't comprehend, before you looked up into his optics, a devilish look in those red infernos of yours that promised everything Bumblebee did and didn't want. For a while, all was still, before his lips, once so still, were caressed by those of your own cool ones.

"There. The deal has been sealed. No going back, now." You were laughing now, an unfriendly sound, and then he felt it. The coolness of the energon, dripping across the crease in his door-wings.

"You see that dip in the canyon, scout?"

He gave a nod of the helm, uncertain of where this was going.

It was maybe, what, five kliks from where you both stood?

It'd take maybe about a dozen steps to get there. It wouldn’t have been a problem, at all, if the components between his legs weren't so heated. He couldn't make it there. Not without overloading.

He realized this with a sense of horror, of fascination. He knew you could smell his arousal, could feel the longing in his EM field, knew you were a master of innovation, knew you’d find a way to fix his little "problem".

And he had been right. You pressed your lip components to his audio receptors, and the coolness of the energon whip slid upwards, towards the tip of his left door-wing.

"I want you to get on your knees, Bumblebee, and _crawl_ there. Like a good little Autobot."

But the solution brought a fresh new wave of anticipation, of heat, of _embarrassment_ , to his mainframe.

Slag it, the fans were coming on. Already. And you hadn't even touched anything _important_ , yet. He hesitated.

There was the slightest nuzzle of your helm against his own, and though the show was one of purity, of _affection_ , your words were not. "Unless you'd rather I take you right here."

He whimpered only once, and then he felt himself lowering to his knees. A deep sense of shame, _of_ _wonder_ , filled him. Shouldn't he be **_fighting_** this sort of degradation, one at _your_ servos, the **_enemy_** ** _’_** ** _s_** , of not-his-sparkmate?

Wasn't he behaving unfaithfully?

There was a sting against the damaged wires in his throat, and a tug. Another sting.

He dared to look down. Realized that the whip had coiled around his throat. Loosely, not enough to cause harm. Cool energon raced over his tired frame, and he felt his body coming alive where it had been miserable, _rusting_ , only moments before.

He'd been suffering energon depletion, he realized, somewhere, through all this haze in his mind. He looked up into your red optics, the smile on your lip components enough to erase his sparkmate from mind, make her face a distant, hazy memory.

"Don't keep me waiting, Bee," you cooed. Your optics flashed, a display of menace (one that made the energon in his circuits run hot with need). "I don't have a lot of virtues to boast of, but if I did, patience would _definitely_ not be one of them."

Everything you said, everything you _did_ , screamed _Decepticon_ , screamed _enemy_ , reminded him that he should be fighting back, sending out a distress call, doing something, _anything_ , but submitting - and yet here he was, wanting everything you were offering. Wanting _everything_ that had been forbidden to him since the day he was sparked.

Everything he'd been taught was wrong.

Pain, suffering, subjugation of another's will, of their rights, domination, interfacing without love. (But _did_ you feel love? You had whispered once that you loved Bumblebee, once when the two of you were doing something very similar to this, but was that love _pure_ like his love for Nebula? Was that love _even acceptable_? For what love thrived on the pain of the beloved?)

You were trouble - trouble he didn't mind. A problem - one he didn't want to solve.

You needed to be _fixed_ \- but Bumblebee didn't want to be the one to fix you. Did you really _need_ to be fixed, anyways - just because you didn't fit the Senate’s perfect image of a good bot?

Scrap, now _he_ was beginning to think like the enemy.

_No, bad thoughts, Bumblebee._

"Don't think so much, my sweet Autobot," there was a titter of laughter, a sultry giggle that only _you_ could ever pull off, almost femme-like, in his audios. "Leave that to the evil Decepticon who's going to frag you so good you won't be able to see red for another vorn without feeling a little tingle in that precious valve of yours. Who knows? Maybe even just the optics of your enemy will make you overload, right there, on the battlefield. Wouldn't that be a sight for very, _very_ sore optics?"

The scout didn't have the spark to respond. Mostly, he was just surprised he could manage a semblance of coherency with your thin fingers prodding alongside the nodes beside every stream of biolight he had _never_ thought could be used in such a manner.

Another laugh. "Come, now. I'm sure you remember how this goes."

He did, faintly.

(Of course, now that history was repeating itself, he was remembering in vivid colors and sounds, now, ones that made his body weaker with need.)

He began to move, could feel the relief it offered the coils and springs in his thighs, stiff with need. You were as nimble on your pedes as you were with your servos, moving ahead, leading the way with nary a ruby-laced glance backward. You knew the scout wouldn't - _couldn't_ \- resist.

Wasn't strong enough to. Bumblebee felt the last bit of dignity he had left prick at his optics, coolant dripping lower over his cheekplates, as he asked Optimus Prime for forgiveness, his _Nebula_ for forgiveness, in his processor.

And then he was shrouded away from the heat of the sun, body heaving with relief, deep, cool air filling his vents at last and clearing away the lingering dust. There was a breeze here, hidden from view of the harsher conditions by the valley sweeping beside the canyon.

 _A ravine, is what it was_ , he thought to himself.

"There, now, feeling better?” you purred. You didn’t give him enough time to respond, instead choosing to bend down to attain optic-contact with him, relishing the sight of that delicious blue coolant drying against the metal of Bee's faceplates.

"You've got a little something there, Bee," your tone was gentler, suddenly, and this confused the poor scout further, if possible. It was the same tone he had come to assign to the “you” from the past. The “you” he once knew. The “you” who used to care so much, before you went and got yourself "killed".

Thinking you meant for the scout to wipe his tears away ( _because they made you feel the wrongness of your actions, feel guilty?_ he hoped), he made to do so, but you only stopped him from doing so. "You know, let me get that."

Your tone was still soft, optics flashing ( _with remorse?_ ), and so Bumblebee made no move to stop you. You tugged the scout closer by way of whip, but the painful sting it brought him was almost completely shut out by the immediate relief offered by your cool glossa against the side of his face. You were... you were _licking up_ his coolant?

Were you _enjoying_ the scout's torment, then?

He knew he should feel disgusted, or at the very least afraid, angry, _something_ , but all he could feel was another rush of intrigue, of _want_ , down where it mattered most.

_ Your choice of designation _ _-_

"I have always wondered whether your tears tasted as sweet as the rest of you," was the only explanation you offered. You seemed to think about your own words for a moment, but before you could say anything else - before you could _do_ anything else, to perhaps remedy or worsen the burning between the scout's legs -

 

Bumblebee came awake with a jerk.

It took his optics a few kliks to adjust to the much cooler temperature of his berthroom in comparison to the heat his body had been expecting. Though he was not outside in the burning heat, anymore, some parts of him were still uncomfortably warm.

He groaned with the realization - it had all been a dream.

A sick, _disturbing_ dream, but all just in his processor.

(Where it _shouldn't_ be.)

He'd been a mess ever since he found out you were still alive.

And the worst part of it all, besides the feelings of _betrayal_ , of _anger_ , of _sadness_ , that constantly vied for attention inside of him? It was the **_heat_** that came with the nights.

 _That_ part of his dream hadn't been a lie. You hadn't _just_ been his friend, once.

You’d been lovers, too, back when it _mattered_. Back before he knew Nebula.

But those wild nights, tempered by the gentleness in your optics, by the way you always made certain he was alright after your slightly-rough lovemaking (that Bumblebee heard was not entirely uncommon for Autobots, not as _uncommon_ as he’d once assumed (so why he had been so **_ashamed_** about it was a mystery even to _him_ )) - it had all _never_ mattered, now that he knew the truth.

Or _thought_ he did.

Or thought he could _slightly_ “understand”, anyways.

Some parts of his processor were ( _still_ ) asking questions, though, giving him pause; sometimes in the middle of the day. Had you ever _really_ been his friend? The two of you had met in basic training, after all.

Had you never told him about your past because there was truly _nothing_ to tell, or because it hurt too much to think about - or because you were a Decepticon spy?

This _mystery_ , these _lies_ , this _deception_ \- it was driving Bumblebee up the walls.

He had to know. He knew Optimus Prime had told him not to dwell on such things, not to let what he knew now to change his perception of you, to alter his memory of the “you” he had loved and lost, but it was easier _said_ than _done_.

(Arcee had even offered to take care of the battle if you should ever show up, which you _hadn't_ (since the truth had been _accidentally_ revealed (because you’d made a mistake – you hadn’t even _meant_ for him to ever find out (he wasn’t sure what hurt worse – your deception, or your attempts to keep them secret for so damn long))), but Bumblebee had turned her offer down. He **_had_** to deal with this on his own, couldn't let it slow him down.)

Nebula, however, had been the only one to know the truth of what _really_ bothered him.

She _alone_ knew that Bumblebee sometimes cried in private because he wasn't sure if all those sentiments he'd _thought_ he'd shared with you - the love, the passion, the trust - were ever “true”, as well. With the credibility of your friendship in question came the doubt of the relationship you’d shared (once “friends” or “partners” was no longer enough).

(Because he wasn’t sure if it'd ever been more than just "harmless fun" to you.)

You probably had _no idea_ how much your actions had **_really_** messed up the scout - or perhaps you did know, and you derived some sick sort of high from watching him squirm, from the pain in Bee's optics that reflected the burning in his spark.

Nebula tried to help him forget, like he'd asked her to, but she had also stated, _very firmly_ , that there was only _so much_ she could do. Then, she had confessed something to Bumblebee, something he could have **_never_** seen coming -

She understood the feeling well – of questioning everything, _every **word**_ , of a lover's lips when you realized they were not who you thought they were, what they would have you _believe_ they were.

Nebula hadn't always been his, after all, just like he hadn't always been hers.

Once, she had shared more than just a purpose, more than just a cause, with her former _Lord Megatron_. Once, she had shared everything she was with him: her love, her trust, her faith, and her berth.

So, she might not have experienced it _quite_ like Bumblebee had, but she said she could understand, at the very least, the **_pain_** of questioning whether anything in love lost was _ever_ as meaningful to the other person as it had been to the sufferer.

(Bumblebee tried not to think about Megatron ever placing those _vicious claws_ of his on Nebula (the same ones he used to tear out the Scout’s vocal receptors), though he _did_ need to remind himself that she wasn't quite so “helpless” as others would _like_ to think she was. She was a decorated warrior, after all, the once-famed gladiator Windblade. She _clearly_ handled her own in the berth with Megatron.)

(Though it _did_ beg the question of why Megatron never seemed to have fought **_harder_** to keep her by his side - until he remembered that she had defected _quite suddenly_ , without warning to _either_ faction, and witnessed _only_ by Optimus Prime.)

(And Megatron _did_ seem unable to curve his rage whenever he noted her presence on the battlefield, unable to keep his optics from straying when she was around...)

But that was more than Bumblebee could say for **_you_**.

Even _Megatron_ seemed to care more for his past than _you_.

You had just resorted to teasing him with a giggle, _a wink_ , like it'd all been a **_game_** to you.

(And maybe it _had_ been.)

And he'd just... felt _everything_ in his spark shatter, with no sign that you even shared _half_ that pain. Bumblebee sighed once more.

And now, he was just supposed to _accept_ that you had decided to “defect”, as well?

Everyone else seemed _far_ more willing to accept the circumstances than he was.

It all “made sense” to them. _He_ was always supposed to be the one more likely to forgive and forget, it was how he'd _always_ been - more carefree, an easier friend than foe, more understanding. But this time he just... **_couldn't_**.

No, **_this_** was something he might _never_ be able to accept.

Because there was a voice nagging at him, asking _how far_ you were planning to take this game. He knew you did it to save your partner from Megatron's wrath, knew it was done to help another ( _not for him_ (not to make up for what you’d done – no, you were **_never_** guilty of _anything_ )); and he couldn't help feeling a wild trill of jealousy, of _anger_.

You had betrayed Bumblebee without a second thought, your own lover, your _near_ - _Conjunx_ , but had been willing to lay your life on the line for a _partner_ , a **_human_** one at that, who was just that - _a partner_?

It was just... all so **_ridiculous_**. He could _cry_ \- he could _laugh_ at the piteous nature of his own jealousy. Nebula really was at a loss of words, because she had never come _close_ to experiencing this special brand of “torture”.

The _worst_ part of it all, besides the obvious?

Nebula had taken to talking with you, to _laughing_ with you.

It was almost like you’d both come to some kind of fucked-up _understanding_. He saw the glint of Nebula's optics, didn't understand what it meant, and wasn't quite sure he _liked_ what he saw in your own, unreadable optics.

(Unreadable because how you read someone you didn’t even _begin_ to understand - and perhaps never had?)

To his own embarrassment, you had taken to talking with _him_ , as well (or _trying_ to, anyways (you couldn’t converse with the unresponsive, could you?)). You were still your old self, on the surface. Still made jokes that weren't always appropriate, still laughed at all the wrong times, still found the same sort of dark stuff, _the bad luck_ , downright hysterical.

(Which made Bumblebee wonder if you had _always_ openly displayed who you were – but he had just been so caught up in _loving you_ that he hadn't noticed the warning signs.)

“So, my sleeping beauty has finally awoken, it would seem.”

He jerked, astonished. In all his fretting, the scout had somehow forgotten rule number one of being what he was: _notice your surroundings before letting your guard down_ , even for a moment, even if you think you know where you are – especially when you think you’re **_safe_**.

(He’d witnessed Decepticon treachery at its finest, and knew _exactly_ why such a “harsh rule” would apply.)

 _Your choi- your choice of designation?_ (!)

There was a great sigh (your _sorry excuse_ for a response). “Not quite expecting _me_ , were you? But I suppose this was a lucky surprise - might’ve been awkward to explain to your _conjunx_ why it was **_my_** designation you were crying out in your recharge.”

He turned his helm, met your own _devilishly red_ optics. You hadn’t had them reprogrammed to blue – had claimed you’d rather stay true to who, _and what_ , you were. You might’ve left the Decepticons, but some part of them would always have been, _and would be_ , who you were.

And to deny one’s own identity – well, that would **_foolish_** , indeed.

( _More like futile._ )

(You couldn’t deny your own nature any more than you could deny that energon existed.)

Optimus had understood, and agreed ( _of course_ ); and so, your optics had remained red.

Unfettered. Wild. Just as they always had been. In the end, Bumblebee suspected that your optics were **_meant_** to be this shade of ruby, from the very beginning.

That same coy smile played at your lip components, reminding him of his position. (And of the audacity of your words in regards to his unfortunate – _situation_.)

_I_ _–_ _I did_ **_what_ ** _?_

“Called my name out. More than once, might I add,” you emphasized with that same infernal grin. “Almost begs the question, doesn’t it? But don’t you worry, little scout. Your secret’s safe with me. I _am_ irresistible, after all.”

Bumblebee made to push at you, to laugh, but his laugh was more nervous than he would have liked. More of a titter, really. _Why are you here, anyways?_

“Well, and here comes the kicker, your _conjunx_ insisted that we should ‘spend more time together’. Thought it’d be better for team morale. For, uh, _Bumblebee_ morale. Scout pep. Whatever you wanna call it.”

_She wanted_ _… And you agreed?_

“’course I did. How could I not? I know I’m total scrap at showing it, but you’re important to me, Bee. It’s always been my job to make sure you don’t go stir-crazy and lose it. And lately, you’ve been doing _just_ _that_. So, here I am.”

He didn’t notice that there was coolant sliding down his cheekplates (probably because the lower temperatures were keeping his metal cooler than the hot desert air – or lack thereof – would), and he might never have noted it if it hadn’t been for you finding the need to look at him in _just that moment_.

“Hey, come on, you’re getting a pep rally, here. Don’t you _like_ those?”

_You slagger._

You made to say something (maybe something _witty_ , maybe something _clever_ , maybe something **_terrible_** ), but then you froze once you saw the pain in the scout’s blue optics. “I get the feeling that the problem here has nothing to do with a failed mission or your vocal processor.”

_No, it doesn_ _’_ _t._

Maybe it was his tone, or the way his optics narrowed, because you began to feel uncomfortable. Something that rarely happened unless your aft was on the line for a mission-failure (something you thought you’d left behind with Lord Megatron), or unless you were confronted with emotional distress (which was probably what _this_ was).

“Bee, I –”

The scout gave you no time to speak, instead abandoning all hope of behaving in a civilized manner. All this time, he’d been trying so _desperately_ to keep the heat down, to cool his systems without giving his arousal away, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to do that with the object of his frustrations ( ** _you_** ) sitting in his berth, so close that you could touch one another if either of you so pleased (and perhaps this possibility, sitting in the back of his processor, didn’t _help things along_ , either). And the angrier he got, he found, the more his systems heated, which his body confused for something else.

So now he was just feeling **_really_** hot-and-bothered by all of _this_ , by the stupid situation and the fact that you could never go _just once_ without making your subtle innuendos, even when it made everything _ten times_ more awkward – and – and – _slag it all_ , your lip components were like **_heaven_** against his when he was feeling this _vulnerable_.

He expected to be pushed away, to be teased mercilessly, to be shamed and humiliated and later have to explain himself to a very righteously angry _conjunx_ – but what he _didn_ _’_ _t_ expect was for you to breathe out against his lips in _just the right way_ before jerking him closer.

Your thin fingers played (idly) with the wires of the small of his back, slipping between the parting in his armor plates, and the scout felt another rush of heat, only **_this_** time, he pulled back, away, because he knew that there had to be _limits_ to recklessness in reality. This wasn’t a dream (however much he wished it were), and so he had to know when to **_stop_**.

(Even if he really didn’t _want_ to.)

(Because he **_should_**.)

_ Your choice of designation _ _, I_ _–_ _I_ _’_ _m so sorry, I have no idea what came over me_ _–_

“Oh, _relax_ , would you, little scout? We’re not doing anything your _conjunx_ didn’t _want_ us to do. You don’t have to explain yourself to her, and you _definitely_ don’t have to explain this to **_me_**.”

_Wait, wait, **what**? Nebula _ _–_ _she **wants** this?_

“All but _begged_ me for it, she did. Of course, not with herself. No, she’s got this _brilliant_ little idea that if we worked things out, the way we _used_ to, then maybe you would _finally_ allow yourself to come to terms with everything that’s happened between us since then.”

_She thinks_ **_interfacing_ ** _with_ _you will make me feel better?_

You tilted your helm, (almost) a precious gesture. One that asked, _Is there a problem?_

 _She_ ** _does_** _know that interfacing isn_ _’_ _t the answer to_ ** _everything_** _, right?_

“Oh, my sweet honey-bee, I thought I’d already corrected that misconception inside your cute little processor the first time we fragged.” There was a glint in your optics, one Bumblebee wasn’t certain he liked.

And then the heat began to build, _full force_ , once he realized what he’d just set himself up for. You leaned forward, your smooth, pink glossa gliding across Bumblebee’s trembling lips.

It was a move you knew for a fact that the scout couldn’t resist. The poor guy was a sucker for dirty, impure things. Why someone with such innocent optics had such so many _filthy_ and _strange_ “habits” was beyond **_your_** understanding – or _was_ it? (Not that you were really complaining. It sure made for some _interesting_ experiences.)

(And you were pretty sure it was your own fault that half of those “habits” even _existed_ , really. The scout didn’t even know how to _kiss_ before the two of you had met. Now, thanks to you, and from what Nebula had explained to you of Bumblebee’s “berthroom habits”, the scout had **_definitely_** grown to have some “experience” in the berth. (And some interesting “techniques” that could make _anyone_ overcharge in mere kliks.))

(Though you suspected most folks would _blush_ just to know that such an innocent face was capable of said “filthy things” in the first place.)

But no, not _you_. You were not a “blusher” - _never had been_. You were - _and always would be_ \- the one to make the energon rush to another's faceplates. It was what you had established long ago in the berthroom. (" _My_ rules, _your_ pleasure.")

"Interfacing isn't the _answer_ , dearest one. It's the _question_." A grin, easy as ever, quick to appear, slid across your lip components. Now that you’d gotten over your shock of the fact that Bumblebee had been the first one to initiate intimacy (because he’d **_never_** done that before, not with _you_ ), you were back on the prowl. And the scout was properly back where he belonged - the prey.

(The very _willing_ prey, judging from the way those sweet blue optics of his flickered, almost guiltily, over your frame, assessing the situation, unable to resist the temptation.)

_Same as always, your choice of designation?_

"Oh, no, my pet. I've grown restless." Bumblebee knew what that meant.

(It meant you had grown more ruthless. Filled with the coiled, pent up energy of **_needing_** to feel the pleasure of another's pain at your servos, needing to see another so completely at your mercy that you yourself almost _overloaded_ from the sight of such vulnerability. You were a sick son of a glitch - but you were _Bumblebee's_ sick son of a glitch.)

_What, not enough victims-to-be-had during the past few vorns?_

You hummed in response, treading light touches over the taut wires along the scout's right thigh. "Oh, no, the hunt was certainly _interesting_ aboard the Nemesis - even caught myself a few _favorites_ ," your optics glinted darkly at the memory, something Bumblebee was sure meant that you were _relishing_ each implicit memory, "but there was truly nothing, and ever will be nothing, I'm sure, that can compare to the sweetness, to the honey, the _home_ , of your very _tight_ , very _wanting_ , very _wet_ valve."

 _Mine?_ Was all he could squeak, because it'd been so long since you had spoken to him in such a manner, since _anyone_ had spoken to him in such a manner, that he almost forgot if there was even a proper reaction to be had.

"That's right," came your sultry whisper, the skim of your sharpened denta across the metal of his audio receptor, "you're the best one I've ever had, Bee. Guess it's because you feel like a virgin every time; but Primus, you _really_ know how to put on a show. They were all **_impure_** , the lot of them, but _you_ \- you're so innocent, even now. Every time I was inside them, even when I was with Starscream, _and boy_ , was his valve tight as a youngling's, figure I was the first one to touch him?" (you paused, almost as if to consider the possibility) "well, no matter; even with _him_ , all I could think about, despite all his struggling and those beautiful little sounds he sang for me, **_even then_** , all I could remember was the look on your face, the way you could whine so sweetly and make it look like it was _my_ fault when I had heard you beg for it just _moments_ before. You have no idea, little scout, no fragging _clue_ , how much I missed you."

And maybe all this did was prove your point, because Bumblebee could feel his faceplates heating up like he had never heard other bots say _much_ dirtier things to each other before, and then he made the mistake of trying to exvent slowly.

It came out more like a gasp, almost as if he were _astonished_ at the language.

You burst into a giggle, the one that he couldn't deny made his spike ache, his valve drip, like nothing else could. "You are just so _precious_. So, what _is_ your answer?"

_Wh - what?_

"Poor thing, so disoriented, and this isn't even the _fun_ part, yet." Your red optics flashed once more in the dim lighting, and he could read all your intentions, so clear, _right there_. Your EM field hid nothing from the scout, didn't bother trying.

All the thoughts, _the fantasies_ , involving himself - he almost _overloaded_ right there.

But he **_didn't_**.

Instead, he choked back a desperate sob.

_Yes. My answer is yes. It's always been yes._

"And I suspect it always will be," you teased, but before he could think to (falsely) protest, there was an intense heat pressed against the cover of his port. He chanced a glance lower. There it was - your signature tool of dominion, your favored weapon.

An energon whip. Fully unsheathed.

 _You plan on -_ he gasped for coherency, _using that?_

"I promise it won't cause any permanent damage," you cooed, though Bumblebee already _knew_ this was the case. (It wouldn't be his _first_ time held at the mercy of your kink for whips - and chains. _Where was the chain?_ )

Ah, **_there_** it was.

The coolness of metal against metal. The pulling of chains, and then the telltale _click_ of imprisonment. Sweet, sweet imprisonment.

_Why am I not surprised?_

He did not sound _half_ as casual as he had _hoped_ he would about his current predicament. (If one could chance to call it that.) This (of course) did not go unnoticed by you.

“Because you’ve been waiting for this for far too long to feign surprise, honey-bee,” came your mockery of sweetness, of affectation. Once, he might’ve found this habit of impersonation infuriating. Now, he realized that he truly _had_ missed this sick traipse of what a relationship should(n’t) be like.

He found that he must’ve kept far too silent for your liking – his only warning, however, came in the form of a light-sparked pout on your faceplates. “Are you _thinking_ again, Bee? At a time like this? Oh, how you **_wound_** me.”

That one word was emphasized by the screech of metal on metal, as well as the brief flash of discomfort that came with you dragging your sharply-filed claws across the wires at the very threshold of his panel covering. Energon dripped onto the berth beneath you, and he sincerely **_hoped_** that was from the injury and not a subconsciously opened panel.

_Nah. Just wondering if you_ _’_ _re still all bark and no bite, old friend._

The challenge did not go unnoted – nor unappreciated. There was a very dangerous gleam in your red optics. “ _Still_?” you echoed. “Oh, was I too _soft_ for you, then, Sir Endurance?”

_Well, you certainly forgot to leave a mark._

He had no idea where this friskiness was suddenly coming from. He supposed it must’ve been the past few years’ need to misbehave, the memory of his adolescence, acting up. Either way, it got the job done. You didn’t seem to mind (however you _pretended_ otherwise). In fact, Bumblebee would even go so far as to say you _liked_ it.

(It _was_ a big improvement to his usual sullen behavior (the one he’d donned, as of late).)

“That,” you stated, with an air of finality, the arrogance of a hunter that’s cornered its prey, “is a mistake I won’t be making again. It certainly seems to me you’ve forgotten your place, _scout_.”

There was no coherency left in Bumblebee’s mind to even begin to protest this outrageous statement, considering that before you had even finished speaking, he was gasping for an intake (of oxygen he didn’t need), systems glitching, as he watched, optics fighting to shutter, while you dragged a particularly sharp talon, with _purpose_ , across the highly sensitized metal of his innermost thigh, barely nicking past wires and nodes.

There was purpose to this pain, as there always was, and only when he began to struggle against his bonds, gasping and panting out in his delirium of pain, did he realize what it was that you were doing: _leaving a mark_.

One he wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss, in the future.

(One that Nebula would surely ask about.)

( _A prick of shame_ , before he remembered.)

One in the shape of a first initial of your chosen designation, where the tail of letter/line of letter curved until it reached the underside of his paneling.

Then, just as you began to scratch at the thinning of paint there, you lowered your helm, cool glossa pressing to the wound, almost as if to apologize (though Bumblebee knew better). You loved your energon fresh from the wound. Another reason you were one kinky bastard/bitch.

Then, there was a shudder throughout his entire body. You had followed the trail of energon before placing your tongue directly against the cover to his array of interfacing equipment. He jerked, almost as if to escape the heated caress of your sinfully skilled glossa, but you weren’t letting up. Your talons scratched alongside the edges, as if you were searching for something.

There was a click, and the heat became unbearable, because your glossa had found the nodes aligning his already-lubricating valve. How had you _done_ that? (!)

_The override manual._

And just before Bumblebee could wonder (how he could _still_ bear any thoughts without losing them to the heat of your glossa was beyond him) where the whip had gone, he felt the burn, once more. A slow trail, leaving behind traces of energon (from the whip, itself, from his wounds), making its way slowly upward from the underside of his knee to the metal that extended over the curve of aft-to-thigh.

His processor, hazy with need, with desire, did nothing to mute the pathetic whimper that escaped him. A _whirr_ , really, a _tired_ sound, a **_whiny_** sound. It reminded him of a sparkling, could've _killed_ him with a wave of embarrassment, had it not been for the thrill of delight in your red optics.

"I do have to say, Bee, I enjoyed your voice, once. Your sweet begging, the way my designation sounded on that glossa of yours, but _this_ is just too **_precious_**." You paused to swipe your glossa, quick, deft, along the nodes outlining the outermost folds of the scout's valve. " _This_ makes everything feel new, again. And how I do enjoy my first-timers."

Bumblebee made a weak sound of protest, trying desperately to keep his systems under control. Any more and he just _knew_ he could overheat. He'd heard tales of some mechs or femmes undergoing _system failure_ from overheating during interfacing sessions.

(Of course, you had once told him that those were all lies, not even _possible_. But just how much could he **_really_** trust you? You were a liar by nature, _really_ , and didn't seem to feel _one bit_ of remorse for it, or even _shame_. You almost seemed to think that lying was **_fun_**.)

"I do believe it's time for me to begin decoding just which sound translates to what word, don't you?" It was your only warning, before there was a pressure, burning, **_unrelenting_** , that was pushing up, past the slick folds, causing delicious friction against the heated nodes in his valve.

He couldn't remember **_this_** sensation, but that's because it was a _new_ one.

His optics flickered, and he caught sight of the intruder.

"Like it?" another giggle from you. "It's a new trick I learned."

_Ne - new trick?_

Oh, Primus. He could barely breathe. (Good thing he didn't _need_ to.)

It felt torturous, wrong - and he wanted **_more_**. The pain was _not_ so blinding that he could ignore the intense pleasure the overflow of energon was giving to his most sensitive, weakest clusters of ( _tensed, overwrought_ ) wiring.

He had never heard of receiving energon transfusions through the valve, but there you went, once again defying all that was _natural_ , all that was _right_. (He would _definitely_ need to ask Nebula if she had ever heard of **_that_** before. Of course, _in private_.)

(He would also have to ask her _a_ _lot_ of things, really, like why she had subjected him to **_this_** , but he supposed it wasn't something he could really hold against her. Especially considering that he wasn't exactly _opposed_ to the idea, himself. Really _couldn't_ oppose, at the moment. He was enjoying himself far too much.)

"What a yummy sound _that_ was," you said in response, probably in referral to the series of clicks and whirrs that sounded almost like the cross of a protest and a plead for more.

_New trick?_

He tried asking, again.

"Starscream really enjoyed it. Of course, _after_ he was finished complaining that it felt ‘unnatural’, that I was truly ‘sick in the helm’. I sort of didn't let him finish whining. Just pushed it in deeper - like this -"

You demonstrated, and Bee's grip on the chains suddenly wasn't for comfort, but for the **_security_** that he wouldn't fall apart where he lay. Primus, that felt _too good_ to be anything but **_evil_**.

He was truly going straight to the Pits for this.

"And he fell apart, just like that," you gestured. "Of course, he was a lot more _vocal_ about it, but considering your disability, I can let it slide. I'll just settle on enjoying your expressions. They are _so very enticing_." There came your cruel laughter, the one from Bumblebee's nightmares. It was a very mean, _teasing_ sound, and though he felt that he _should_ have felt sad (because his once-close friend was making fun of his one, _crippling_ insecurity), he reminded himself that you had never **_not_** been a total glitch.

_You are sick, your choice of designation._

"Been told that once or twice," you shrugged it off. "Usually, that's how they all try to justify their own sick intrigue in my ‘personal illness’. Right before they seem to have _no problem_ begging for more of my **_sickness_** when it starts feeling too good to stop."

_They? You said you've had more lovers since then, right?_

"I do believe I mentioned the Seeker – _Captain Hypocrite_ , so uptight, so cowardly, such a _disgrace_ to his own creed. I think I nearly loved him; a mech after my own spark, that one was." A sigh of fondness. "He screamed the loudest."

_How many?_

He struggled to ask, trying to distract himself from the burning, the revitalizing of his wires, _of his systems_ , that only seemed to make the heat grow steadily more **_unbearable_**.

You gave a twist of your wrist, a quick flip, and Bumblebee was all-but- _writhing_. There was a burst of static from his ruined vocal chords – and he realized he was quickly losing control of himself, that his body had just forgotten its own disability.

You found this ‘utterly endearing’, _you son of a glitch_ , and your giggles made the energon flow faster to the scout's faceplates than it already was, in his haze of pleasure.

"Why? Would you derive further _pleasure_ from hearing my tales? _Oh, you dirty little mech._ You never cease to delight me with your surprises."

_Just tell me, you tease._

"Alright, alright," you offered him a very heavy, _very feigned_ sigh of ‘exasperation’. "Well, Starscream certainly wasn't the first. Only one of my favorites. Don't tell _him_ that, though. He's quite the possessive type. It was _so_ _thrilling_ to notice how my superior commander was rougher on the other officers if he even _suspected_ that they were **_looking_** at me far too long for his liking."

_You deceived **Starscream** into thinking you were **faithful**? Why do I **not** believe that?_

You leaned closer, glossa running along his audio receptor as you gently, _gently_ , pressed the side of your whip, near to the tip, against a ceiling node. Bumblebee flinched, just once, and then felt himself come undone. His systems crashed, or that's what it _felt_ like, because all he could hear was a great _ringing_ throughout his processor, a hum in his own EM field, and then the whole thing went into overload.

He jerked, gasping for some semblance of control, but in the end, he was forced to let it go.

He could hear his fans clicking on, trying _desperately_ to cool his systems down, but the heat from _down there_ , the sustenance he was receiving (he'd never be able to get another energon transfusion again without this inherent feeling of **_filthiness_** ) – it wasn't gone, yet.

"I, honey-bee, am a _damn_ good liar," there was a flutter of your optics, a coy, teasing smile, and suddenly, he felt the urge to kiss you and feel your spike deep inside of him, _all at once_. It was a wonder, how you could do that to him with just one look. (And then he realized that he might not be the **_only_** one you had that effect on.)

_Good enough to fool the king of treachery?_

“‘King of Treachery’?" A tilt of the helm. "Oh, darling, I hope you don't mean my old commander. Oh, _no_ , Bumblebee, you see, **_I_** am the King of Treachery. He can only ever hope to measure up to _half_ that greatness."

_Why am I not surprised? You don't think highly of **anyone** , not even the people you fool into loving you._

"Did I do that?" A blink, and then, your thin claws trailing a line of freshly shed energon against Bumblebee's cheekplates. "Did I ‘fool you into loving me’, Bumblebee? How are you so sure I never felt the same? How is _anyone_ ever sure I don't feel the same?"

_That's just it: we're **not**. I don't think **anyone** can ever be sure of it. Everyone has a spark, I know that, but I'm beginning to think you were **born** with the absence of the ability to feel love._

"Or _trust_ , or _honesty_ ," you added, mocking his bitter tone. "I think you keep forgetting that once upon a time, this was my greatest strength. Hard to let go of the past, isn't it?"

_You can take a mech out of the 'cons, but you can't take the 'con out of the mech._

"Not truly," you allowed. " _Never_ truly."

_What about Starscream? What's he gonna think of you up and disappearing? Without so much as a love note?_

You laughed then. "We were lovers, Bee, not _conjunx_. It wasn't that serious to begin with. He never really cared about me, never _truly_. He just doesn't like to share what he believes is his. He's like a selfish sparkling with a shiny new toy. It was fun while it lasted, but I'm **_no one's_** toy, and I **_belong_** to **_no one_**. And unlike Starscream, when I say that, I _mean_ it." Your optics flashed, anger, and Bumblebee knew there was something you _weren_ _’_ _t_ telling.

_Did he **try** to _ _‘_ _own you_ _’_ _?_

"Tried and failed. I sure had my fun showing him how little control over me he really had. And Bumblebee, he wasn't the only one." A tap of your sharp talon against his inner thigh. "Like I said, he _suspected_ , but he never had the evidence. And the one he **_did_** have evidence against, well, he just wouldn't dare move against his ‘liege lord’, would he? _Coward_." A shallow laugh.

_I don't - **Megatron**!?_

"Now, _there_ was a real bit of fun." A glimmer of something; he could _swear_ he saw discomfort (perhaps at the thought of it, at the memory?) but then it was **_gone_** , smoothed over by your usual spark of mischief.

 _What did he_ ** _do_** _to you?_

He realized he sounded compassionate, _sympathetic_ , when it was too late.

"What did he _do_ to me?" You laughed, an empty sound that didn't reach your optics. " ** _Nobody_** does anything to me that I don't _allow_ , Bumblebee. Only thing is, sometimes I don't recognize when I'm playing a dangerous game."

_Did he...?_

He didn't want to ask the question, but he had to know.

You must've seen the look in his optics, must've heard the distinct change in tone. "No. And I think perhaps I should advise you against feeling bad for the one who's holding the key to the chain." A twinkle of mirth in your optics.

_So, if it **wasn't** like that, why do you look so uncomfortable?_

You froze, like you’d been caught red-handed doing something you shouldn't. "Oh, _no reason_. But how does one explain, now that you've asked, that one still misses certain _aspects_ of their old life, **_especially_** after one has gone ‘traitor’?"

_You **miss** the Decepticons?_

You burst into giggles. "If only it were that easy, that _simple_. You Autobots. You all make me **_sick_** , sometimes. But, alas, you’re _right_."

A theatric sigh.

"I do miss them. Well, _certain_ _parts_ of _some_ of them." Another glimmer in your red optics. "But mostly, I feel I am going to derive the sickest _satisfaction_ of goading Lord Megatron with my last promise to **_him_** , while knowing it will be not him who suffers the most from the knowledge, but the one who would never think to leave his side, even if his spark died a little when he saw that I hadn't been lying **_just this once_**."

A clap of your hands, before Bumblebee could decode your cryptic words, and then the whip was gone, and your glossa was back in its place. He tossed back his helm, panting for breath (the one he didn't need), wondering how it could still feel this _new_ , this _electric_ , to him - and then realizing that the whip had served two separate functions.

Friction, and sustenance. But the sustenance had not been for _nutrition_ , itself - it had also heightened the _reactions_ in his valve, made them _stronger_. How in the pits had you learned **_that_** sort of trick?

_ Your choic  _ _ – _ _ Your choice of designation! _

"You're ready," a smile played at your lip components, which you then promptly pressed against the scout's own to shut up his whimpering, his heated cries, as your panel slid back with the audible sound of a _click_. And then, just like that, you had slipped inside, fully pressurized, and the scout was writhing, fighting his bindings, because it felt _too good_ , filled him up in all the places he hadn't even _remembered_ existed. His ceiling nodes were going haywire, crying out for stimulation, and just one rough shove had him close to losing his processor.

"At last," you moaned out, a deep look of satisfaction, _of_ _delight_ , in your optics, etched into your faceplates. "And boy, was my memory sorely mistaken. You feel much, **_much_** better than I remember."

Bumblebee could hardly respond.

He only tugged at the chains with a pathetic whimper, and you gave him a devilish grin. " _Nuh uh uh_ , no fighting, my pet. Now, just lay back, mhm, like that, _oh_ , now doesn't _that_ feel marvelous?" You straddled the yellow scout, running filed claws alongside his thighs and bolstering them up, folding them up around your waist, _agile_ , pushing yourself in deeper.

The scout's helm swam, all memories and thoughts fading away with every movement that you made until all he could feel was the push and pull of your thrusts, the way that his calipers gripped around your perfect spike, and how he seemed to have **_never_** been filled _so_ _beautifully_ until then.

He could only whimper and whirr and blip out an incoherent symphony of pleasure, but that was alright, because you **_more_** than ‘made up’ for it. You whispered things into his audio receptors that drove him up the walls, made it harder to keep himself together, all the while taking him with a fervor that reminded him why no one else, _not until_ _Nebula_ , had **_ever_** come close to making him overload.

And then, he felt it, _overload_. As if calling forth Unicron, so he came.

Bumblebee allowed himself to begin coming down from the high, and only noticed that something was wrong when he could feel you breathing heavily against him, thighs coated with energon, and realized that you were giggling, yes, **_laughing_** , really, but that you were also shedding coolant.

He felt something like alarm.

"You were fantastic, Bee, so wonderful. Primus, yours was always my favorite valve." You laid your fingers against the scout's faceplates, almost fondly. And then pressed your lip components to his in an _almost gentle_ kiss.

Your tears were fresh against the scout's closed optics.

_ Your choice of designation _ _?_

"Don't _ever_ let her go, Bee. You hold Nebula tight to you, and you love her, and don't let **_anyone_** , not even **_yourself_** , convince you that you would be better off without her."

_ Your choice of designation _ _, why are you telling me this?_

"Because even now, he still holds a tight grip on my spark, and I don't even _begin_ to know if he _cares_ , or **_notices_**. And because I was a fool and let go right when I think I was beginning to find out."

That being said, you pulled out of him, savoring the last bit of warmth you would feel in a while, and tossed so that you lay beside your friend. There was a pleasant feeling in the air, but there was also an inexplicable sorrow to it.

He could look into your EM field, find out what was on your mind, but he knew he had only to ask.

_Who was it, your choice of designation? Who did Starscream hold evidence against? Who is the reason you still miss the Decepticons, the **real** reason you can't let that part of yourself go?_

You laughed, before you covered your optics with a single arm, and Bumblebee could see the coolant leaving a trail down your faceplates. One that you would most likely wash away before morning and never speak of to anyone. He was seeing something no one else had seen before, felt like he was _intruding_ on a weakness he had _no right_ to witness.

You said only a single word, but that one word was so laced with _pain_ , with _desire_ , with love and hate and loss, that it brought a feeling of energon rushing to his faceplates, once more – but not from his own desires; from his _embarrassment_ in having seen such a raw force that he realized he might _never_ truly understand.

"Soundwave."

Nothing more was said that night.


	8. The Game of Thrones || Transformers: Prime || Megatron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Megatron, the source of all your grievances, as of late. 
> 
> Not only did he allow what happened to Breakdown, the one thing in your life that might just be real, that might just matter, to go unnoticed -- he had also begun to dismiss your true worth to his cause. 
> 
> He was starting to piss you off, and as a result, you were beginning to act out. 
> 
> This did not go unnoticed, of course, but what he plans to do about it is unorthodox, to say the least.
> 
> Though, he shouldn't be so quick to assume that you're one to be beaten, so easily. You've still got some fight left in you.
> 
> (Even if you have a strange way of showing it.)
> 
> After all, what is interfacing but a struggle for power?

“Sex and battle were each dangerous in their own ways.”

 Richelle Mead, _Gameboard of the Gods_

Your only way out was blocked by none other than **_him_** \- your infernal bane. The one person that seemed to keep getting in your way, who seemed to have become _hell-bent_ , lately, on making your life harder than it had to be.

( _Who was he, you ask? Good question, mechs and femmes. None other than the **great** , the **mighty** , **Lord Megatron** , himself._) What exactly his obscure intentions were for calling this little “meeting” were beyond you, but what you _did_ know, however, was that you were the only one invited. And that couldn't _possibly_ be a good sign.

A few metacycles ago, in these same circumstances, you’d have nothing to worry about. But things had changed since then. A _lot_ of things. A flicker of blue optics, of a genuine smile, of that damn kid's lips against yours, the surprise evident in his optics, but the unwillingness to pull away - why did you have to remember that _right_ _now_?

What if he somehow _knew_? _That_ should be what you were fretting about. You had been so careful to cover your tracks - or so you _thought_. But, for whatever reason, Lord Megatron had grown to become rather **_unpredictable_** in his esteem of you.

One moment, he was accepting a job well done with _barely_ a nod of the helm, and the next, he was spitting fire at every minuscule mistake you made. What was he, _PMSing_ (as the organics would say)? Did he trade in his old _Commander_ _Starscream_ for **_you_** , having become accustomed to having a bitch to unleash his (unrelenting) fury upon?

If he thought you were going to just bend over and take it like a cheap whore, then he was in for _quite_ a surprise. You hardly took that slag from your own bearer (being that she was the literal avatar of Mortilus, himself (or _her_ self (?))), so _like_ _the Pits_ you were taking it from **_him_**.

Just then, as if he had (somehow) overheard that last (spiteful) bit, he turned to face you, red optics flaring into that hellish purple for just a klik, lowering to take you fully in. To _study_ you. Your faceplates betrayed nothing (you hoped), and you (somehow) managed to keep an expression blank of any (incriminating) mutiny, or anger, or concern -- although you could hardly restrain all traces of inquiry from your own red optics.

"Your choice of designation," he spoke at last, voice the same deep growl as usual.

(Moreso now that he was in your presence.)

(You know, because he was _obviously_ in another of his moods. **_Again_**.)

He struck you as being calmer than he had been for quite some time (try, _the past few months_ ) – but still, you couldn't help goading him (as you _tended_ to do). He just made it _far too easy_ , what with such a short temper (and perpetually unpleasant expression). How anyone, much less _himself_ (what with “certain victory” so close at-hand (if you bought into the rumors (which you didn’t))), could stand being all-work-and-no-play, **_24/7_** , was a mystery to you.

One of your servos fell to a single hip, and you quirked an optical ridge in question.

"Lord Megatron."

Revealing no intention to kneel (as was expected ( _of_ _you_ , being the “defiant” creature that you were)).

You had expected a flicker of annoyance (or _outright_ _fury_ ), but received only a blank expression. He had come to expect this blatant disregard for the chain of command from you, _especially_ considering whom you must've learned it from.

(The Spider (and _traitor_ (of whom Tarn had promised to dispose of))? His wretched First Lieutenant (of whom he _still_ hadn’t heard anything from)? He still hadn't pieced _that_ bit together, yet.)

(He could only assume that your role models left much to be desired (especially, _evidently_ , when it came to teaching you respect for your superiors).)

Instead, he folded his arms behind his back, linking his fingers together, assuming his usual air of authority, of supremacy. _All work and no play_ , as usual. (Primus, why did Starscream ever begin to think it was _fun_ to play games with this one (considering that he didn't seem to know the _meaning_ of 'game', or of 'fun')?)

"You're wondering why I summoned you here in the midst of your recharge hours, yes?"

"Well, whomever said you weren't insightful has truly underestimated you, my Lord."

There was the (slightest) trace of a teasing lilt to your words, but when he took a look at your faceplates, any and all traces of a jest were gone ( _if they had ever existed_ ). He heaved a sigh.

"It has come to my attention that there are signs of… _dissension_ in your recent actions. My Second recommended that I call for a private assembly with you to discuss this," he paused, perhaps to tell you that he had changed his mind, and to order you away, but for whatever reason, _he did not_. "... _development_ , and to see if there is anything that can be done about the matter. If I am to discover the root of the problem, then perhaps we can put an end to this strife I am sure you have also been taking note of."

There was a glimmer of curiosity in those hellish optics of his. He turned to face you, and just at that moment, the Hull's supply of biolights lit up his faceplates from overhead at just the right angle, and the flicker of red in those optics - it just hit you how very _attractive_ your liege Lord was.

When he wasn't in the midst of a great rage, Lord Megatron was a handsome mech.

And then you _caught_ yourself thinking these things, and felt the urge to run very far away, and slam your helm against the nearest wall ( _repeatedly_ ) until you erased such **_impurities_** from your processor, all at once.

At this point in time, a full minute had passed without any sort of response from you, and so he took a step forward, unclasping his fingers and instead folding his servos across his chest. And then he proved you wrong - _for once_. He rose an optical ridge, an action mirroring your earlier goading, and an expression of mirth entered those usually forbidding faceplates.

His lip components pulled upwards to reveal a fine set of sharpened dentae, but not in his usual menacing sneer. Instead, it was rather an _alluring_ grin that complimented his features nicely. (And did you _no favors_ , in regards to your previous, _unsettling_ train of thought.)

"I had thought many things, your choice of designation, put together a few theories – but I had no idea that the root of our little _problem_ stemmed from a **_physical attraction_**."

Your optics shuttered momentarily, in disbelief, and then, it happened. Your guarded expression, the one that usually did _so well_ to protect your thoughts from prying optics, **_it dropped_**. Just for a klik, but it was enough. He caught a flicker of embarrassment, of denial, of disbelief and confusion.

It sent a rush, _a thrill_ , through him like nothing else had for vorns. At last: a _reaction_.

And he didn't stop there. _Not_ _now_ , when he knew that he had _finally_ gotten you where he wanted you.

(And now that he knew how _different_ you were from your bearer, as it so turned out.)

( _You_ were far more amusing.)

You couldn't help the cold fury you felt, overflowing like a wave through your circuitry, coating your metal stiffly with the need to punch something, or rather, _someone_. But you knew _far_ _better_ than to allow your anger to control you.

(Especially in regards to whom you felt particularly violent _towards_. There was no doubt in your mind that you wouldn't last a _minute_ against this great brute.)

But, what you _could_ muster was a glare so fierce that if looks _alone_ could kill...

"Pardon me, **_Lord Megatron_** , but I think I may have heard you wrong. What did you say?" you stressed the title, perhaps to remind him that this was a disgrace ( _to himself? To you?_ ) he was committing, this transgression of a _professional-become-personal_ relationship, or perhaps to get him to back off due to (feigned (?)) disinterest (and/or _disgust_ , and/or _fear_ , and/or **_whatever_** it took to (subtly) spurn his advances).

But _no_ , he would _not_ surrender. He would pursue, as was customary of a _victor_ , of a _hunter_ , of a _predator_ , of a **_Lord_**. He would pursue the matter to see if he was correct; nothing more, nothing less. (Unless the revelation of whatever the _truth_ of your dissension was urged further action to be taken.)

He offered only the smug look of one whom had trapped another and knew it.

( _What a ghastly creature._ )

"You did not mishear me, your choice of designation. And I will not be so easily swayed by any attempts to divert my attention elsewhere. So, you are going to stay right where you are until the truth behind your disquieting actions reveals itself, or you will not be receiving a _single_ _klik_ of recharge for the remainder of the lunar cycle. Are we clear?"

You made to protest, but then thought better of it. It was _unjust_ , really, as you had spent the entirety of the cycle slaving away to try and win back his trust (to get him off your case), but what could you do? Here aboard the _Nemesis_ , he was **_Primus_** , and his word was gospel.

(Slag him to the pits. You had _really_ been looking forward to sweet dreams of that darling Autobot of yours. Or of your dearly-departed Breakdown. He just couldn't seem to get enough of tormenting you, so he _had_ to continue well into the night, _didn't_ _he_? The cycles just weren't long enough, _were they_?)

Instead of protesting (or even spitting energon into his face and gladly suffering the consequences, as you were half-tempted to do in your fit of anger and/or quickly-approaching exhaustion), as you had initially been planning to do, you gritted your dentae and bowed your helm in a submissive gesture. Hopefully, if you played along, he would tire of his games and leave you to recharge, _no harm, no foul_.

"Yes, Lord Megatron."

"So you do not deny that there is discontent in your spark?"

_I never said th-_

You realized, too late, that by agreeing to this _ridiculous_ waste of time, you had all-but-admitted that there **_was_** a truth to be found. That you did, indeed, _have a problem_.

( _Idiot, stupid, moron -_ )

"Is there such a phenomenon as ever _truly_ being content with one's leader?"

"Soundwave has proven more than capable of this _phenomenon_."

_Probably because he's far too eager to choke on your spike, you overgrown parasite._

"So it would seem."

The two of you stood silent for some time, your optics lowered, lip components fighting back a grin at your own (inappropriate) thoughts. It was nigh impossible, but you managed. ( _Somehow_.)

(You wondered, briefly, if Soundwave would be just as eager to suck Megatron’s spike as he was to kiss his aft. Then decided that it didn’t matter, anyways. _Not your problem_.)

"What seems to be the problem, your choice of designation? I am most curious to know, considering that up until your rather surprising nosedive into disobedience, I held nothing but the highest of esteems and respect for you."

( _And for your work, however disconcerting it was_ , he finished in the privacy of his own processor.)

You couldn't help yourself. You burst into giggles.

He quirked an optical ridge.

"Was it something I said?"

" _Esteem_? _Respect_? Ever since my _dearest bearer_ began whispering her pretty little lies into your audial receptors, you've been ignoring my every bit of counsel, treating me the untrustworthy fool when the very person you allowed to govern your actions was a traitorous wretch whom, apparently, everyone but _you_ knew better than to trust for even a _klik_. And that isn't even to mention the humiliating task you set me to, using my ‘assets’ to coax the answers out of a stubborn Autobot sparkling, as if I were nothing more than a pleasure drone, on **_her_** advisory," by the time you finished, you were nearly out-of-breath, chasis heaving, optical ridges furrowed in distaste, in anger, _shame_ and _hurt_ and _accusation_ burning clear in your ruby-red optics.

Your fists were clenched, but only at your sides, because you knew that if talking back in this manner to your Lord was _suicide_ , then becoming physical with your bout of rage was just hammering the nails to your own coffin.

(If you would even be afforded one.)

And for a long klik, maybe a few deca-cycles (alright, _exaggeration_ , but at this point, you were beginning to regret saying _anything_ _at all_ ), you feared you may have been right. He said nothing, only met your gaze evenly, seemingly unfazed by your outburst (though you knew that, underneath his façade of control and discipline, he must be _livid_ at your callous display of disrespect).

There was a flash of purple in those gems of red, and then he was raising a servo, slowly. **_This was it._** If he did not strike you down, he would surely squeeze the very life from your throat, or perhaps tear out your vocal chords as he had to the Autobot scout, _and this time_ , there would be no well-meaning medic to save _your_ life.

Or -

Or he would press his clawed talons to the curve of your cheekplates so gently you almost didn't notice that they were there, and then he would further surprise you with an infuriating grin of victory, that particular set of dentae sharper than the rest in an almost endearing manner (Primus, forsaken, would you _offline_ thinking about how handsome your killer was? what on this ugly green planet was even _wrong_ with you lately? first, _an Autobot_ ; now, **_Megatron_** _?_ ), and say, in a tone of voice that was its usual growl but sounded far more attractive, alluring, _sensual_ , when he used it in such a manner:

"My apologies, _little spider_. I hadn't an inkling of a clue that my personal opinion of you would cause you to act out in such an _unprofessional_ manner. I had thought you would know for certain that whatever strategy I chose to gain our Empire an edge over the Autobots was nothing personal against you, and not meant to demean you in any manner. If this was your only concern, then I hope you will believe me when I say that my feelings towards you remain unchanged. In fact, I ignored my own sentiments when I ordered you to gather intelligence from the Autobot in such a manner. It infuriated me to think of the weak little thing touching you as only **_I_** should, but I did it for the cause, and because I thought you _enjoyed_ that sort of game."

"Feelings - towards _me_? _Sentiments_? I - what do you mean, _as only you should_?"

You could hardly help your sudden, incoherent babbling. Your conjoined solitude in this room suddenly became very apparent to you, and you realized how easy it must've been to ensure that not a single living spark would intrude upon this “meeting”.

And you suddenly realized how close he was standing. And began to think of all the other times you had ignored his rather _alarming_ close-quarters-proximity to you, only because all those other times had been spent thinking about other things, like getting a cube of energon, or wasting away free time with the medical assistant Flatline (your dearest friend, and trusted mentor), or even just how _clever_ your earlier jabs at Knock Out had been.

Had you missed clues of _attraction_? **_You_**?  Your choice of designation? The _master_ of such things?

**_Are you serious_ ** _? (!) Is Megatron -!?_

Was he confessing his _feelings_ \- for **_you_**?

Your personal whirlwind of panicked thoughts came to an abrupt stop in your processor when you felt something metallic, something _sharp_ , dragging alongside your lower lip component in a manner that sent sinful little shivers of anticipation down your spinal struts.

There was a prick of pain, _sudden_ , small, really, nothing to _alarm_ you, and then you felt the cool energon running a steady stream along your chin. You made to wipe it away, hating to show weakness in front of Megatron (for _any_ reason, especially if **_he_** was the one to cause it), but then his free servo seized yours, _gently_ , without force.

He lifted your frozen fingers up to his own faceplates, placing them against those lip components of his in a kiss – one that was not meant to be anything more than “innocent affection”, but one that provoked a sensation of _burning_ in its wake, and spread desire through you like a wildfire.

"Are you preparing to scamper away along your web, yet, _little spider_?"

Those words, breathed out against the metal of your fingertips, almost stole your intake of (sullied) air away. Your optics met his, and you wondered _how on Cybertron_ he could elicit such a strong reaction from you when you couldn’t remember ever feeling a _lick_ of attraction towards him beforehand, and he offered only a teasing look in return. Mirth twinkled in his optics.

He really thought you would run away, that you would be too embarrassed from then on to raise a single ounce of defiance against him, and that you would remember this and falter every time you considered treachery against him, come the future.

He _really_ thought he had you cornered.

And he had no idea just how **_wrong_** he was.

If he thought you were going to turn away the opportunity of a lifetime, something this _intriguing_ (and perhaps even an _advantage_ in the future (come the moment that your little affair bore no more fruit (and that time would surely come, for it was as Whiplash often said: “The Justice Division takes no bribes, not even that of the bare metal,”))), then he was _crazier_ than they all whispered he was.

No, _you_ were the queen of this game. **_You. Would. Not. Lose._**

Let them see who was a better deceiver, a better _liar_ , in the end.

"Depends."

"On what?"

"Are you planning to show me what you meant, or should I call your bluff now, _Lord_ _Megatron_?" You offered a taunting, coy smile of your own.

There was no surprise evident on his features (and that should have worried you) – only the darkening of his need for you, of his gladness that you had not run, after all, as he had _originally_ planned.

"Am I to take this as your consent?"

You saw the flicker of a challenge in his optics.

(And like a sparkling, turning your nose up at your bitch-“mother’s” taunts, refusing to lose the game (because it was always a _game_ , a _competition_ , a _challenge_ , to see who could cause more damage, who would come out on top; who, in the end, would win the “game of thrones”), you foolishly accepted the challenge, defying the fate of any mere mortal.)

(Because if you could lose, so could _he_. “All mechs must die,” as your bearer so often taunted.)

( _Of course, I am no “mech”, dearest mother._ )

"I figure it must be more than what you got from that whiny Seeker."

A throaty laugh, and then a nip of his dentae to your exposed fingerpad. He proceeded to use his glossa, _longer than you had ever cared to notice_ , to clean away the wound. The technique had its desired effect. Your EM field shuddered, and then his _desires_ , his _longing_ , his _wants_ , were crashing over yours, seeping into your every unrestrained pocket of knowledge and sensation, burning against your nodes and cooling systems.

You felt hyper-aware, hyper-sensitive, and never more _turned on_ than you did right now.

(Although your “match” against the blind helm-case certainly was _delightful_ enough to come in at a close second (oh, who were you _kidding_? – this probably couldn’t beat that, not by _a long shot_ ; it’s as Whiplash was always saying: “You aren’t truly alive until you’re nearly dead,”).)

This was turning into a dangerous game, but what was life **_without_** the game?

"I will make certain that you come to regret this decision, _my spider_."

That being said, he pulled you up towards him by the curve of your chin, lowering his helm, and even as you froze (reconsidering – maybe this risk _wasn’t_ worth taking), his lip components were slamming into yours with such a ferocity that you felt the _drip_ , _drip_ , _dripping_ of energon from the wounds before you felt the sharp pain of his dentae against your more sensitive metal.

And all you could do was let the air be taken from you so suddenly that you found yourself sighing almost in _relief_ from the impact. You didn’t know what you had been expecting ( _not this_ ), but Megatron _certainly_ seemed to know just what to do to make a femme squirm.

( _Or a mech_ , in Starscream's case. But did he really make for a good basis of comparison?)

(You nearly snickered at the thought, but decided not to.)

(More like, _couldn’t_.)

You didn't know _when_ it had happened, or _how_ (without your notice (even with the _unseeing_ _loony-tune_ , you’d held near-complete control of the situation (you supposed it was only fair to assume that no one going around murdering “traitors” in cold blood was going to _get laid_ ))), and yet here you were, cornered against a control panel, the hard metal slanting against your back at just the right angle. The warlord lifted you with just the lightest press against your waist, so now you were seated on the edge. _Quite comfortably_ , you might add.

(That move earned him a bonus, really. What a mech. _Swoon_.)

He allowed you to accustom yourself to his rhythm; a klik was all it took, _really_ , but you took this opportunity to remind him that you, yourself, were a willing player. Not a _weak creature_ to be led along, like some kind of never-been-touched virgin.

Your fingers ghosted along the contours of his arms (impressive build, _really_ , primed to moisten the valve of any like-minded femme - after all, you did like yourself a little show of power, of _authority_ (nothing turned you on more, really, but you weren’t exactly planning on giving _that_ much away (especially not to _him_ ))), the scars carved into his faceplates, before you gripped the back of his helm, keeping him in place. Just for a klik, _honestly_ , before wrenching away from his grip.

His red optics met yours, intrigue winning over a brief flare of irritation.

You tilted your helm, almost in a coquettish manner, as your glossa swept over the damage his dentae had offered your lip components. Then, you offered him a mock-petulant pout, one you knew really _revved_ _his engines_ because of the growl deep in his chasis (because it **_always_** worked (feigned innocence _really_ seemed to arouse the psychopaths of “the Empire” something _fierce_ ; not that you were surprised)), the one that rumbled against the palms of your wandering servos (where they were situated to hold him just _long enough_ to get the message across).

"Ow."

A grin stole over his lips, and he moved so quickly that you (almost) didn't see it coming. His lip components were once against pressed to yours, _very gently_ , very **_differently_** from the last kiss he had offered, and then he retreated back until only his exvents were warming the metal of your mouth. His clawed fingers grasped your chin in a manner reminiscent of a lover's, thumbpad soothing over your bottom lip absently.

"Forgive my eagerness, my flower. Would you prefer it if I stopped?"

You made your move. Your thin, gracefully-curved legs wound their way around his waist, pulling him in closer until you were certain his interfacing array was only a _breath_ away from yours, and then your ankles locked to keep him in place.

All the while, you offered a ( _teasingly_ ) coy look, one meant to come across as hesitant.

( _Needing to be led._ ( ** _Exactly as they all preferred._** ))

(A bold move, one that (efficiently) relayed your message: _you’re not the only one playing to win_.)

He did not appear surprised by this maneuver (white Queen advancing forward, prowling, scanning the scenery (intending to capture the unsuspecting (?) black King)), and, in fact, seemed _empowered_ by it. Megatron must've been anticipating such a ( _transparent_ ) move on your part. **_Frag_**. You would have to find _another_ way to surprise him.

"Oh, **_no_** , my Lord. It was only _a_ _little scratch_."

You emphasized this statement by dragging the sharpened blades of your own claws playfully, _slowly_ , enough to _madden_ the most _patient_ of mechs, across one of those _aesthetically pleasing_ slopes to the curve of a shoulderpad. You didn’t press _nearly_ hard enough to leave a mark, but you _did_ manage to draw forth traces of energon from his (hyper-sensitive) circuitry.

He exhibited nary a trace of discomfort, but his optics _did_ flicker, gaiety making itself known in the (subtle) quirk of his lip components. (The very same look you were growing _quite_ _fond_ _of_. Were you the **_only_** ‘bot alive (in _any_ corner of the universe) to behold this side of him? You found that you didn’t really _mind_ the thought. It was almost **_exhilarating_** , really.)

" _Oops_ ," you purred, with as much sincerity as one would expect from a cyberwolf caught red-handed in the midst of devouring a favorite pet (say, _for example_ , a partially-domesticated sparkeater-turbofox ( _he he he_ )). He only offered a chuckle in response.

A silence fell between the two of you, not entirely an _uncomfortable_ one, during which you took the opportunity to splay out both of your servos behind you, reclining back into an almost _leisurely_ position. Now that you were supporting your own weight, you were finally able to peer up into his optics (if that happened to be your prerogative) – but, (since it wasn’t), you chose instead to tilt your helm to the side. Tormenting him (?), _beckoning_.

"What's your next move, _Lord Megatron_?"

"You tell me, _my spider_ ," he leaned in, closer to you, planting both servos on-to either side of your chasis, gripping the control panel ( ** _hard_** (you wondered whether you had displeased him (and decided, promptly, that _who even gave a frag, anyways?_ ))). Despite your “vantage point”, he _still_ towered over you, his red optics **_burning_** down towards your own with a hint of _malice_ , of _delight_ in this particularly-compromising-situation. If anyone was to walk into the Command Hub, at this very moment, there'd be _no way_ to disguise what this was. (If either of you had so _desired_ to (which neither of you seemed very intent upon, in either case).)

"What is it you would have me do to you?"

You straightened out, allowing one of his servos to snake through the gap underneath you (between yourself and the quickly-heating console) to hold you up by the small of your back. Your optics drank in the sight of his own (greedily), caught the barely-commanded _control_ , the burning **_need_** to take you right then-and-there and, _yet_ , the vorns' worth of self-discipline (instilled into him by an _uppity_ and _smarmy_ Mining-manager (what was his designation? _Nosedive_? ( ** _frighteningly hilarious_** , considering the fact that his career seemed to model after his designation, following the “escape” of “Lord Megatron” from impending imprisonment))) that prevented him from giving into his most-primal internal-provocations.

(Or, perhaps, _external_. After all, you were _fully aware_ of how infuriatingly attractive you were. Especially whenever you turned up your chin and _defied, defied, defied_. (Apparently, it was a sick “interest” shared by both Lord **_and_** punisher. (Cue a giggle. You were just so _incorrigible_.)))

All he needed was a little _push_.

And you were sure that, at this moment, if one of you did not fall victim to your desires, if one of you did not _surrender_ , he would not be the **_only_** one left wanting.

(The realization of this inevitable conclusion both _infuriated_ and _enticed_ you.)

"Would you have me touch you as a lover would?" Your glossa swept across your lip components as he lowered his helm to press his own, _just-barely_ , to the wires of your throat, **_burning hot_** against the cool touch of his glossa. "As your _Autobot_ would?”

_No, **no**_ , you did _not_ want to think of Smokescreen at this moment (and _why_ would he bring him up? (why did _everyone_ **_always_** bring that stupid ‘bot up? You were beginning to think that the only way to be rid of the chatter would be to kill him, _yourself_ (but you knew, long before that thought crossed your mind, that you wouldn’t **_dare_** ))); but still, his (uninvited ( _arousing_ )) taunts brought up mental images that would _forever_ make optic-contact with the stubborn warrior an _uncomfortable_ _stigma_ until you managed to erase this union with your “Lord” **_completely_** from your processor.

For a _madman_ , he truly knew how to get a ‘bot hot-and-bothered.

(You hoped that this was not a one-time phenomenon. It would bother you, immensely, _beyond-words_ , if you were the _only_ imbecile to ever fall victim to his nightmarish charm.)

(Of course, this wouldn’t be the **_first_** time you’d found _attractive_ what others found _terrifying_.)

(Cue the distant memory of a mean-spirited ‘bout of sparkling-reminiscent laughter.)

His claws slid slowly up along your spinal struts, until you were all but _purring_ once his touch came into contact with the back of your helm. And, then, he **_pulled_** with enough force to give you whiplash (you **_definitely_** did not want thoughts of _that_ idiot invading your processor at the moment (however _smugly_ he would behave to know that you had been thinking of him during a “steamy” encounter)).

(You really didn’t feel like giving him any-more reason to believe himself “the universe’s most attractive mech”. (And found yourself secretly hoping that someone proved him wrong, one day; **_horribly horribly_** wrong. (“No one can say ‘no’ to _this_ lovely pair of faceplates.” _Pft_.)))

"Or perhaps you do not _deserve_ such kindness." You supposed that he had meant for his words to sting more than his claws, but they _didn’t_ (he must’ve gotten confused, somewhere along the way, if he thought you gave a _flying-turbo-fox’s-aft_ what he thought about you). Of course, he probably noticed. And **_bit_** you, for that reason.

(What a _bitter_ _little Lord_ , he was.)

(He just couldn’t win with his _words_ , could he?)

It hurt quite a bit, _like a glitch_ , one might say; but _oh_ , did it feel **_good_**.

It was no small secret that you had “inherited” an affinity for pain from your dear “mother”.

How he _knew_ , however, that you preferred to be on the _receiving_ end, was beyond you.

(You doubted that “Kaon” did much gossiping about his “personal affairs”. Especially since they would paint him in an unflattering light, what with “consorting” with a “would-be-traitor”.)

(Didn’t that make him a _traitor-by-association_?)

(He **_definitely_** wouldn’t speak up against you. You’d made _sure_ of that.)

Most others mechs would just absently, _stupidly_ , assume, much like the damnably-attractive (red-plated) medic, that you preferred to _dish it out_ rather than _take it in_ , but you had often found that drinking it in _along with_ the pleasure made your valve wetter than simply “admiring your handiwork”.

(“Kaon” had terrified you half-out of your wits when he’d begun running charges straight into your (closed) array panels, through the conductors lining his palms. Of course, his giggle and half-afted “ _oops_ ” didn’t help your thundering spark. It wasn’t up until he’d confessed that he’d had his “suspicions” about the “reason for your treachery” (being, supposedly, if he wasn’t _just joking_ , that you “liked being punished”), and had decided it’d be best to satiate your “thirst for trouble”, in order to ensure that you began to “shape up”. (“Lest I be forced to turn you into my Commander, for less-pleasant administrations.”))

So, it was no wonder that you mewled out in _delight_ at his _distinct_ change of pace. His clawed talons raked down alongside your biolights, grazing your finish in such a _purposeful_ manner that the ship’s oh-so-lovely CMO (no **_friend_** of yours) would pass out at just the _thought_ of you _gladly_ allowing it. In direct contrast (or _supplement_ ) to this display of “bloodlust” (as the “natives” of this planet would call it), his glossa was sliding over the wound, _heavily_ , almost _desperately_ – like the energon from your torn wiring was enough to sustain a starving mech.

(And perhaps, to a madman, it _was_.)

It was not a “gentle caress”, by any means.

"I should punish you," he mock-growled, beginning to _really_ enjoy himself, now that he had discovered what “weakened” you (you _hardly_ considered it a weakness). His hips ground out against yours, an _experimental_ _touch_ , really; but it was enough to have you throwing your helm back and ex-venting a sharp gust of air (which was your way of maintaining _control_ and _dignity_ (it would not do to lose yourself, _now_ , not when you had just started)).

This (poorly-disguised) attempt at self-regulation did not escape his attention ( _of course_ ). His lip components, bloodied with your own energon (you wondered to yourself, dazed, whether you were _still_ leaking), pressed to yours (once more), and you _gladly_ drank in his kiss as if it were _air_ , itself. He gave you a troubling ( _taunting, menacing, hostile_ ) laugh when he pulled back, and then, began to trail his venomous bites (and kisses) down along your chasis – up until he reached your quivering legs. You had taken the liberty of gradually releasing your vice-grip to allow him room to maneuver, but it was only when the tips of his claws pressed rough indentations into the sides of your knees that you allowed them to part.

His bites turned to nibbles (sucking, grazing; soothing and (mock-) apologetic), especially as he made his way along the curve of one of your knees, migrating for a thigh. "I should make you _scream_ out my designation, so that you will _always_ remember who is **_Lord_** here."

Then, he _paused_ , almost as if to _contemplate_ (at such a _crucial_ moment, when you **_burned_** for contact – for the friction you were near-certain he planned to award to you (as if you hadn’t _earned_ it, for putting up with this ridiculous “Empire” for _so-damn-long_ )); you almost whimpered in protest, but instead, held your glossa.

"But something tells me that if I did that, you _still_ wouldn’t learn your lesson.”

"Oh, _no_ – this “lesson” would **_never_** be forgotten, Lord Megatron. _Truly._ " You meant to cloak yourself in an air of poise, of “deceptive seduction” (as your “mother” would call it (and as Whiplash would echo)), but your voice was breathless, betraying your own intrigue (if one could call it that).

He returned your artful “lie” with a beguiling smile of his own.

"Once I believed that you would have made a _fine queen_ , your choice of designation."

You fell into a wordless stupor, uncertain of the meaning behind his words (because _why-in-the-universe_ (you didn’t remember enough of Cybertron to make any such allusion (you were still a “child”, in comparison to many others)) would anyone ever say something like that during the heat of an interfacing-session?).

Had his “confession” from earlier been the truth, then? Or was it a lie _embedded_ with bits of “truth”? (Those were the best kind, according to your “mother”.) Perhaps his words were part-and-parcel of the web he meant to entangle you within (just like everything else he ever said to you (or to anyone else)). (But what if it **_wasn't_**?)

"If you would allow me..." he gestured meaningfully to the quickly-dampening array between your legs, hidden from view by your (quivering) thighs (which were itching to come together, to hide your “weakness”).

" ** _Allow?_** " you shuddered, this time accompanied by a burst of startled laughter. "My Lord, when I dedicated myself to your service, _I meant every word_. My mind, my frame, and my spark are yours until they cease to be, **_in death_**."

( _“’Til death do us part,”_ Whiplash would later chortle. _“Ever thought of just a simple, ‘go ahead’?”_ )

He moved, then, a wordless request that you mindlessly reciprocated with obedience by laying back against the control panel, before he was leaning in closer, his lip components pressing a searing kiss to the wires twisting along the nodes of your quivering thigh.

"I would say I cannot guess what to do with such a gift," he began, a certain lilt to his tone that made your processor near-glitch (in anticipation (and 99.9% _concern for your life_ )), "but I tire of this **_game_**."

( _What does that even **mean**?_ Had he been playing along, as you suspected, all this time? Where did the games stop and his truths begin? Was this how he drove his followers to worship him and the rest to madness? A dash of truth indistinguishable from the lies, or was it the other way around?)

"I have thought of you, and _this_ , entirely too often, in the dark, when no optics are there to read the desire in my optics as your designation falls from my glossa like high-grade."

You felt an alarming flash of arousal, like an injection of C32 directly into your mainframe circuitry, and knew that your valve was lubricating far too quickly for your liking. He sure had a pretty way with his words, this **_Lord of deception_**. "May I explore you as I've dreamed of doing for so long?"

The tips of his claws scraped along the cover of your interface hatch almost lovingly, _longingly_ , with clear intent, and it was all you could do not to lose yourself to the thought of that long glossa (the one that spoke so many “inspiring” and “empowering” words, the one that issued _threats_ as casually as it did _orders_ ) stroking sensitive nodes inside your valve that had mostly, until then, remained untouched.

"My lord," your voice was surprisingly even ( _you hoped_ ), in comparison to the turmoil you felt inside (both your valve **_and_** your spark, as well as your processor, to be completely honest).

You began to curse yourself, mentally, for beginning to lose your grip when you had come this far - now you would truly have to think of a way to salvage any pride you had left, before this went too far and you found yourself entangled in Lord Megatron's web with no escape (and, preferably, in _other parts_ of him (you didn’t even have the willpower to shut down that gleeful part of you that woke up anytime you had a dangerous mech between your legs, the knowledge that you could end them faster than they could bring you to orgasm; because the biggest mistake all “powerful” mechs made was lowering their guard at the drop of a hat when it involved a tight valve)).

For now, regardless of “Decepticon politics” (or **_because_** of it), your legs parted in invitation. "I desire whatever you wish of me."

Another nip of those deliciously sharp dentae, glossa wandering dangerously close to an exterior node that ran alongside the indentations your interfacing port had left behind (making you realize, with a startled jerk of your hips, that your panel had slid open without first prompting you, as it _should_ have - was he just that **_good_** , or had he played some trick that you had not noticed in your delirium? **_Damn him_** , and that sinfully talented glossa, and those pretty words of his, for making you lose track of yourself!).

"I wish to worship you, to **_ravage_** you, to have you as you are, unclothed in your lies, begging me for **_more_** ," came his damning response, the growl in his words vibrating against thin plating.

Your response was lost (if it had ever been conceived of) when his glossa slid up against the slick opening of your quickly-lubricating valve, before dipping between the folds to tease the swollen nodes aligning the outermost folding of your valve with a rough lick.

Your frame seized, vents flaring as you gripped the sides of the communications panel, not daring to lay a single servo along his heated paneling for fear it would cause you to overload. He hummed in response to your ( _admittedly delicious_ ) non-verbal response, noting your restraint as he sucked at one of the nodes, sending a sly glance up along your shuddering frame.

"You are _exceptionally_ _sensitive_ ," he remarked with delight, red optics burning with the hunger for **_more_** (as they _always_ did (Megatron was not a mech who was **_ever_** satisfied with what he had, you had come to realize (as had, no doubt, the **_Autobots_** ))), "and I doubt it was the _gentleness_ I displayed earlier."

Those words, a subtle threat that did not escape your notice, caused the wiring in your thighs to coil in anticipation of pain. "Do not tense so," his servos kept you from moving away, thumbpads rubbing gently into the plating of your knees. "I will take care of you, you in all your treacherous glory, _my spider_."

He left your valve, then, and his lip components pressed to yours -- before you heard the telltale click of his own panel sliding open. Your optics caught a glimpse of a magnificent spike you were only hazily aware must belong to Megatron, himself – complimented by enticing red biolights, one that almost had your mouth watering with a sudden want, fingers twitching with the yearning to touch the great beast.

The gentleness was **_gone_** , suddenly. He was gazing down into your optics with an almost primal need. " ** _Do not overload before me_**." Both servos raised, taking full advantage of his own strength to wrap your legs around his waist once more, pulling you closer and allowing his fully-pressurized spike to press against the opening of your valve. You all but purred at the sensation. "That is an **_order_**."

And then he was slamming into you with such a ferocity that you did, indeed, scream out his designation loudly enough for half the ship to overhear, if they stopped to listen to something other than the hum of the energon circuits running overhead.

He laughed, an unfriendly sound in the darkness, especially with his hellish purple optics alight with such sadistic glee and his spike buried so deeply inside you that you were almost certain he would _wound_ you, at this pace.

Megatron, as expected, barely gave you any time at all to adjust yourself to his pace, but you managed, regardless, like the _good little Decepticon_ you were. (You would have scoffed had your sense of cognition not been under brutal assault.) His thrusts were rough, thorough, and blinding in all their callous cruelty, but you had never felt a more intoxicating high than you did at this exact moment, what with the way he seemed to know just how to move, just what spot to slam into, just what angle to lift you against him by the curve of your aft so that he was making you weep out your joy - and then those dentae against the wiring in your throat, the way he would seal the wounds with his sweltering kisses -

If this was Unicron's rumored Pit, you would **_gladly_** forgo the Well.

And then your processor lazily recalled what he had ordered earlier, and just as you began to wonder how on Cybertron he could expect you to last much longer with strokes like _that_ , you realized that perhaps he _knew_ you couldn't. Perhaps he just wanted an excuse to do this again, or to take this a step further and **_really_** make this lunar cycle “worth remembering” by taking you back to his personal quarters and showing you just how "cruel" he could really be.

Your mouth watered at the thought.

So, you decided to “test your hypothesis”, as a good little Decepticon should **_always_** do, by pushing the envelope and _disobeying a direct order_. You felt the pressure building, and building, and by Primus, did it feel orgasmic to have him pushing into you with such purposeful strides when you were feeling so delicious and sensitive like this. His optics were dark with a lust that drove you wild, and you could tell it was becoming increasingly difficult for him to hold his own overload back when your calipers were gripping along the sensitive nodes of his spike so tightly.

Then it came, with a potent systems-wide crash, as he brushed against your ceiling node, so intense that you were crying out and shaking for whole kliks afterward as the sensation rocked your own EM field and flooded his own.

He froze, mid-stroke, unable to bear the onslaught, but still _so close_ and yet _so far_ from reaching his own overload that he felt almost frustrated when there was a ping from his most trusted officer, Soundwave, on his comm-link.

He was tempted to ignore it, to dish out a punishment he was sure you would enjoy _pretending_ to “suffer through”, but then Soundwave made certain that **_you_** received the transmission, as well - mostly because, despite the obvious fact that there was Autobot activity, Smokescreen, the object of your ongoing mission for “intelligence”, had been spotted on-site.

You leaned in close, then, to press a kiss to the corner of your Lord's lip components, cooing, "Duty calls." You had done it. You had gotten what you wanted with _no negative repercussions_. You had won the **_game_**.

As you had always known ( _hoped_ ) you would. You pulled away from him, taking an almost sadistic delight in allowing your paneling to close, untroubled by the way you dripped lubricant onto the glossy floors, knowing he was having _far_ more trouble composing himself because his _own_ opportunity had been torn from him so abruptly.

Your hips swayed, _perhaps purposely_ , _perhaps not_ , as you made your way to the doors, fully intending to drop by the washracks for a quick rinse before heading out to further enamor your _beloved_ , _clueless_ **_Autobot_**.

But you hadn't forgotten about Megatron's predicament, nor his touch.

And though you knew you might live to regret your promise (or your own ( _false_ (?)) pretenses ( _or_ _both_ )), you flashed the warlord a coy look over the slim curve of your shoulder blade. "I look forward to my punishment, **_Lord Megatron_**."

This proved only to further fuel his anger - as well as to leave him with the dueling needs to both sate his own intrigue as well as finish what he started and make you **_pay_** for - for -

_Oh, **pit** , who was he **kidding**?_ He couldn't even _remember_. All he knew was that he had to redeem himself by winning this game. For you may have won the match, but you were **_far_** from being crowned the victor. And he was a patient mech.

After all, what was interfacing without the thrill of battle? And what was this game without the challenge of a capable player? "As do I," came as sincere a response as he would ever give, but it was far too late, for you were already gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's back?
> 
> This was one of the last pieces I had to edit.
> 
> (I'm not even sure I characterized Megatron, correctly, but I like to think I did.) 
> 
> (I feel like he would be someone who would see sex as a way of gaining leverage over someone.)
> 
> If you're wondering what he had you, as the reader, doing, it was gaining your own kind of "leverage" on Smokescreen.
> 
> You're a sad, sad femme, in-story. lolol
> 
> Of course, you are usually in control of your encounters. No one's ever forced themselves upon you, fortunately.
> 
> (Not that they would be able to, if they tried. You're not exactly a damsel in distress. lolol)
> 
> (This is a lonely way to live, though. Especially now that Breakdown, your only love, is dead.)
> 
> This is one of my favorite characters. Conniving in a manner that generally winds up in success, saccharine, sarcastic, a touch cruel, owing no sense of loyalty to anyone else but yourself -- a femme after my own heart, in other words.
> 
> (Basically, you and Whiplash get along, generally speaking. lolol You both play different games, but you're in the big-boy league -- you play to win, and don't settle for a half-assed attempt. I mean, for fuck's sake, you have Kaon in your pocket.)
> 
> (... sorta. Realistically, I think he knows what you're up to, but is still willing to enjoy the ride. It's not everyday that Kaon gets laid, with his job. And if a pretty femme is willing to offer up a little bit of "negotiation", who's he to say no?)
> 
> (... as long as Tarn doesn't find out, obviously.)
> 
> Moving on... (if you want to know more about "you", as the character in this piece, shoot me a question, comment, etc...)
> 
> (I love explaining my creative process ^^)
> 
> I was surprised to receive a comment asking about my personal wellbeing from TomorrowsHero (Jacob) -- pleasantly surprised, of course -- and, really, it's kinda cool that people like my projects enough to check up on me. ^^ Really, though, I think you'll be excited to know, as I mentioned to said loyal reader, that I was finally able to shake off my writer's block, and have been working for the past 2-3 months on this piece, as well as many others.
> 
> So, expect a few projects in the works. And like I said before, requests are welcome here. ^^
> 
> (I already wrote down a few that I received. They might take a while, but your patience will be well-rewarded. ^^)
> 
> I believe in quality over quantity, as you can tell. I may not be pumping out pieces, but I do take them seriously enough to try my best to make up for the long spaces of time in-between publications and updates. lolol
> 
> Good news about Guilty Until Proven Innocent, too (my other piece on MTMTE). I'm currently working on getting the last portion of "explanations" (flashbacks, if you will) completed. It's been a wild ride. lolol 
> 
> (I'm even working on an Overlord project. ^^ Don't ask why... ^^;; I'm messed up inside -- real messed up.)
> 
> Anyways, I've rambled long enough. I'm starting to feel like Swerve, so that's that.
> 
> Anything I forgot, or that you're curious about, we can cover, later. 
> 
> Thanks for dropping by, again, and for being so patient! I can almost-guarantee you that if I don't write for a while, it doesn't mean something bad has happened to me -- I'm likely to be working on school assignments, or trying to fight writer's block, or even working on writing pieces, as we speak. (Although, there is a 0.000001% that I could be in real trouble. Or that something serious is wrong. In that case, I'll find a way to warn ya'all beforehand (I hope).)
> 
> Other than that, have a nice night, you dirty sinners. (You should probably have a cold bath running, after reading this. lolol)


End file.
